Girl Meets Boy and Hates Him
by TazeeWockee
Summary: Mark Salling AU.
1. Chapter 1

The taxi cab took a corner on two wheels and Hayge cursed as she was flung against the side door. "Okay, Casey. Remind me - what is this thing we're going to?"

Casey rolled his eyes. "Do we really have to go through this again? Look, I told you I had to work this one night, just this one night while you were here," he said with some exasperation. "I also told you that you didn't have to come with me."

"Hey," Hayge protested. "It's not that I don't want to go. I'm a good friend, I'm interested in your career and stuff." She braced herself against the door as the cab driver took another corner. "What is it you do again?" she asked, and grinned when Casey elbowed her.

"Honestly, Hayge, if you're not going to be able to behave yourself, I'd rather you _not_ be there," Casey said, but he was smiling.

"Behave? What do you mean, behave?" Hayge asked with mock indignation.

"No, I'm serious. This is my job, and these are people I work for, and I'm trusting you here. No insulting my co-workers, no flirting with my associates, no telling stories about what a dork I was at Harvard." Casey's voice was stern.

Hayge smiled as she watched the city fly by her window, letting her eyes linger on the clean, wide sidewalks, the well-dressed people strolling past the windows. "If they knew what a dork you were, there's no way you'd get invited to a posh, high-class party in New York City."

"It's not that posh," Casey answered absently, and Hayge's eyebrows went up.

"This looks pretty posh to me," she muttered as Central Park came into view. Even in the dark this part of the park and the surrounding buildings looked beautiful. "Like I said, I can't believe a dork like you knows someone who lives in a place like this."

"I'm not a dork. And I don't know him," Casey said with some alarm. "I mean, I know of him, everyone knows of him, but I've never met him. I don't think my boss has even met him. Maybe not even his boss." Casey shifted and Hayge realized he was nervous. "Remember, I told you that the firm I work for is sponsoring that opera fund raiser, and Mr. Salling is hosting this cocktail party, I guess, to thank the firm, and yeah." Hayge watched in growing amusement as Casey brushed at the front of his coat and reached up to his throat to check the knot in his tie. "I would rather not go either," he confessed. "But my boss seemed to think that he was doing me this huge favor including me in the invitation, and I couldn't say no." Now he sounded apologetic. "And I'm sorry. I know a night of watching me do some corporate ass-kissing isn't the way you wanted to spend your vacation."

"It's not a problem," Hayge said breezily. "And it's not really a vacation. I mean, I had to job hunt and get an apartment and stuff."

Casey grinned at her. "I still can't believe you got that job. On the first interview."

Hayge smiled with a completely false modesty. "Oh, I was just lucky," she said, and grinned when Casey laughed.

"Yeah right. Well, we should celebrate tomorrow night, for sure. Go out and do it right."

Hayge nodded. "Yeah, and you know what? I want to go to that club. That one you told me about."

Casey raised his eyebrows. "Oh, that club?" he said, and glanced slyly at Hayge. "Sure. We could do that. I'd imagine that even a dark-haired Amish virgin like you could get some action there." He leaned away as Hayge threw a half-hearted punch.

"Watch it," Hayge threatened. "Be nice to me, or I'll tell your boss about that time you ran naked through the park by Emerson Hall . . ." She trailed off as they pulled up to the front of a gorgeous high rise with a team of real, uniformed doorman. Her smile dropped away. "Well," she continued quietly. "I guess we're going to get a look at how the other half lives, right? Like reverse slumming."

Casey snorted as the door opened and he slid out of the cab behind Hayge. "Yeah, right." He bumped into Hayge as he stood on the curb and they both froze. "Jesus," Casey murmured, and Hayge nodded in silent agreement as they took in the high, well-lit overhang, the spotless marble sidewalks. Another doorman held open the heavy beveled glass door and ushered them into a lobby that looked more like a five-star hotel than an apartment building.

"Damn," Hayge murmured in appreciation as Casey produced his invitation for inspection. "How did you say you know this guy again?" Casey rounded on her and she held up her hands. "Kidding, kidding," she said, and smiled as Casey shook his head.

"I'm wishing I'd just told the boss I had plans tonight," Casey muttered as they were shown toward the gleaming bank of elevators.

"It's kind of intimidating," Hayge murmured back, making an effort to keep her jaw from gaping. The uniformed attendant informed the elevator operator that they were going to the Salling penthouse and they were shown to a separate elevator. They watched in silence as the attendant keyed in a security code and the doors parted silently. For a moment Hayge feared they were going to have to ride up with this strange, uniformed man, and she wondered wildly if they were supposed to give him a tip for letting them in his elevator.

But the man stepped aside without looking either of them in the eye, and they both relaxed as the doors closed behind them and left them alone in the large mirrored elevator. "Just think, a few more years of ninety-hour work weeks in your finance firm, and you'll be the one with your own apartment - uh,_penthouse_ - right here in this building." Hayge grinned as Casey laughed and shook his head.

"Seriously," Casey whispered back. "I don't know if I'd want to live in a place where the elevator attendants are this snooty."

There were no numbers in this elevator but they seemed to climb forever. Hayge couldn't tell when the elevator began to slow; their only warning was a low, subtle chime before the doors slid silently open.

Hayge's first impression was of spacious and cool elegance - the elevator opened directly into a large and high-ceilinged private foyer. Mahogany panelling gleamed with discreet touches of polished brass, the marble floor shined with polish, and glancing up Hayge saw the high ceiling was actually a large, domed skylight. It must be stunning in the daytime, she thought.

Casey's elbow brought her sharply back to the present and Hayge realized they were not alone. A tall thin man - good lord, a _butler_ - had apparently sprung up from the marble floor and was murmuring a greeting. He was actually helping Casey divest himself of his raincoat; Hayge hastened to scramble out of hers before the man could perform the same service for him. He took Hayge's worn but perfectly respectable coat with an air of disdain before directing them down the hallway, where sounds of a large crowd could be heard.

Casey straightened the knot of his tie as they walked and heaved a big sigh even as he pinned a smile to his face and waved to someone at the end of the hallway. "Remember," he muttered at Hayge. "Behave yourself."

"Trust me," Hayge deadpanned, and snickered when Casey rolled his eyes. That was the thing with her, she _never_ misbehaved. The irony of Casey's endless reminder was the humor of it.

The hallway ended with three wide stairs descending into a large room that was stunning in its bright illumination. Hayge felt her mouth open in an O of appreciation as she took in the vaulted ceiling, white walls and two entire walls of floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the mostly darkened central park and the lights of the city. The view was amazing. There was a fire crackling warmly in a large marble fireplace across the big room, glittering people in formal wear talking and laughing, uniformed caterers easing discreetly through the crowd with hors d'oeuvres and crystal flutes of champagne. The noise level was considerable, almost drowning out the small string quartet that played in a corner near the window.

"And there's my boss. Here we go," Casey muttered as he moved past Hayge and greeted a tall, distinguished-looking man and his heavyset wife near the bottom of the stairs. For the next half an hour Hayge followed Casey, smiling and shaking hands as she was introduced as Casey's former college roommate, making small talk with Casey's colleagues, speculating on the opera performance that was to be the culmination of the evening. After awhile Hayge quietly extricated herself from a group of people talking enthusiastically about a new proposed federal tax break for nonprofits, and eased her way toward the nearest waiter with a tray of hors d'oeuvres. She was starving.

The caterer was a young, very handsome man, (not that Hayge was staring too much) and it was nothing to charm an entire plateful of finger food from him, along with two napkins and a very flirty smile. Hayge gave him a shy but telling smile in return and moved slowly across the crowded room, taking care not to spill anything from her plate on the immaculate ivory carpet. Her goal was the corner where the two huge walls of windows met, but the crowd seemed thickest there as people congregated to enjoy the view. There was a long balcony outside too, she could see now that she was closer. It was a pity that the rain kept people from going outside to enjoy it.

The room was packed, and it was an effort for Hayge to find an unobtrusive spot in which to get some serious eating done. Her day had been a full one, beginning with the successful job interview in the morning and followed by the complications of securing her cousin's husband's Chelsea sublet in the afternoon. It was an incredible piece of luck that allowed her to get that apartment, but dealing with the paperwork had eaten up her day, and when she'd returned to Casey's apartment there had been just enough time to clean up and change before heading here. Breakfast had been a long time ago.

Hayge gave up trying to find a flat surface on which to set her plate. She scooped up another canapé and stuffed it whole into her mouth, juggling the china plate and the napkin as she chewed hungrily. She would hate to see herself right now. Hayge was mostly in control of her own body expressions, claiming dominance over her strength and weaknesses and how they manifested. But right now, she was famished. And beyond control, that was.

An elegant crystal champagne glass filled with amber liquid appeared in the periphery of her vision and Hayge froze. A voice, low and amused, said, "You know, I'd heard the food here was good, but I didn't think it could be _that_ good."

Her mouth full of hors d'oeuvre, Hayge let her eyes travel slowly from the long, elegant fingers holding the glass, up the arm clothed in impeccable black cloth, to a handsome chiseled face with a full, soft looking mouth and a pair of gorgeous and coolly amused brown eyes. Hayge swallowed his canapé whole and, mortified, felt herself start to cough.

The man transferred the glass to his other hand and gently thumped Hayge on the back as she choked. "Easy, now," he murmured as Hayge drew a deep and tortured breath of air. "Here," he said, and held out the glass to Hayge. "Drink." Those full lips quirked into a half-smile that made Hayge blink. 

Because… damn.

Hayge took another deep breath and a healthy gulp of champagne, aware of the other man's brown eyes watching her and (her uncomposed little self) intently. She cleared his throat and tried to speak.

"Thank you," Hayge said, and tried a smile. She hoped the brown-eyed man would smile back.

He did, and it was a smile of astonishing charm, showing a glimpse of teeth under full, soft-looking lips and causing his eyes to scrunch in a way that made Hayge's heart skip a couple of beats. "You're welcome," he murmured, his voice low and encouraging Hayge to move closer. "It wouldn't do to have you keel over on the floor. Might ruin this nice party."

"Oh, we can't have that, now, can we," Hayge commented just as quietly. She couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from the other man's face, the clean and smooth lines of his cheekbones, the close-cropped hair smoothing down along his face. "I don't believe we've met," she said appreciatively, and as a waiter passed by she hastily rid herself of her plate and napkin. She held out her hand and gave the man her finest, slowest, brightest smile. "I'm Hayge."

The man's smile widened a little and he never took his eyes from Hayge's as he reached forward and slid his hand into Hayge's outstretched one. His fingers closed firmly and oh-so-slowly around Hayge's, pressing their palms together. "Mark," he said in response, and when he drew his hand away Hayge's heart was galloping. "And I think you're right. We haven't met."

"I would remember if we had," Hayge murmured, and Mark's smile sparkled with real amusement. Hayge's mind was clamouring for an explanation, though. How the fuck had she become so… relaxed and uh, _flirtatious _all of a sudden? Was that supposed to be normal behaviour in such a formal setting?

"Is that right?" he said speculatively, and then turned slightly to nod toward the windows overlooking the park and the lights of the city. "It seems you were enjoying the view," Mark commented politely.

Hayge never took her eyes from Mark's face. "Yes. Yes I am," she said firmly, and gulped a little as Mark took the half-empty champagne glass from her fingers and took a long and deep sip. He licked his lips deliberately and Hayge felt her heart stutter again.

"So, are you a fan of the opera, Hayge?" Mark's voice was low and almost lazy, as though his mouth was loving the feel of her name on his lips, and his eyes, when he turned from the window to look at her, were knowing.

"Not at all," Hayge answered forthrightly. "I'm tagging along with my friend Casey. He works for the firm, I'm visiting him from out of town." She watched as Mark took another sip from Hayge's glass and felt her throat go dry. "What about you?"

"Not a big opera fan either," Mark said dismissively. He looked amused. "But the pre-opera parties can sometimes be . . . rewarding."

Hayge grinned, or _thought_ she grinned, because her heart was practically doing an especially complicated somersault, and shifted her feet so she moved a little closer. Okay, what the hell was happening to her? "Well, the hors d'oeuvres are excellent," she said, and was rewarded with a smile. Again, her heart. Galloping. Like a pendulum high on E. Jeez.

"You should try some more of the champagne," Mark said. "It's quite good."

"I plan on it," Hayge said, and tried not to stare at Mark's throat as he deliberately downed the rest of the contents of Hayge's glass and licked his lips. "So, what about you? Do you work with Casey?"

"No, I'm afraid I do not know your friend Casey," Mark said smoothly. "Perhaps you'd like to introduce me?"

"Maybe later," Hayge murmured. She allowed her eyes to travel lingeringly down Mark's figure, elegant in a perfectly fitted black formal suit with a crisp blue shirt and a silk tie that would've cost two weeks' salary at Hayge's new job. Nice, she thought. Her eyes skated back up to Mark's face. Really nice. Then she saw the slightly raised eyebrow, the amused brown eyes, and had the courtesy to fight back a blush. This man was impossible. If it weren't for the perfectly immaculate attire, she would've guessed he was a ruggedly handsome biker, in his biker jackets and biker boots, all in black. Pocket chains and everything.

"Yes, perhaps later," Mark said, and now he was definitely laughing at Hayge. "So," Mark started, and Hayge struggled to concentrate. Converse, damnit, she told herself, and applied her attention to Mark's words. "Are you enjoying yourself here?" He indicated the huge common room with a gesture, and Hayge turned from the window to look.

"It's, ahhh. Well," she started, and snagged two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to Mark. Another odd gesture coming from a woman, but goddamn if her body was doing odd things at the moment. "It's a very nice party. This place is certainly, uh, big," she said diplomatically, and Mark raised a perfect eyebrow. "And white," Hayge added recklessly. "And really, really empty and cold. Like nobody lives here, or like whoever does live here has no personality whatsoever."

Both of Mark's eyebrows went up this time, and Hayge cursed herself. Why did this man rattle her so much? She'd met gorgeous men before, she'd met gorgeous rich men before, she'd just spent five years in and around _Harvard_ for Christ's sake. Get a grip.

"Really?" Mark asked, his eyes leaving Hayge and narrowing as they traveled around the crowded room. "What makes you say that?"

"Well, there's no comfortable furniture," Hayge pointed out. "Nothing on the walls that tells you anything about the people who live here, no pictures on the fireplace mantle, and," she gestured to the walls, "no _books_." She shook her head sadly. "How can there be no books? It just seems . . ." She broke off and shrugged. "I guess it's just different from where I grew up," she finished and at last she'd said something right; Mark had turned his attention back to her and this time Hayge was prepared for the effect those caramel-brown eyes had on her central nervous system.

"And where was that?" Mark asked, and he seemed truly interested. Hayge shifted a little farther when Mark moved closer; Hayge caught Mark's eyes flicking down her body, which she didn't think deserved those eyes at all. She let him look and swallowed, trying to ease the pounding of her heart.

"Philippines," she finally answered, exaggerating her drawl just the slightest bit. "But I've been in Cambridge these last few years, though," she added, and Mark glanced slyly at her. 

"Ah," he said smoothly. "A Harvard girl, am I right?"

Hayge grinned. "Somewhat. Yeah."

Mark's smile grew and warmed; he lifted his chin and cocked his head a little, his eyes bright and hungry on Hayge's face. "No, I can see that," he murmured agreeably, and Hayge felt herself flush for the hundredth time.

She was gathering her courage for a more direct sally when Mark's attention was caught by something over Hayge's shoulder. Hayge blinked at the rapid change in facial expression, from smiling and, thank god, appreciative, to cold and shuttered. Just like that. Hayge started to turn around to see what had dragged Mark's attention away from her, but was stopped by Mark's hand, stretched out as if to shake hers.

"It's been a real pleasure talking with you, Hayge," he said, and his voice was still low and intimate, sending a rattle of awareness down Hayge's spine. "But if you'll excuse me, I really should see to the rest of my guests." He smiled brilliantly as Hayge froze in horror, squeezed her hand meaningfully, and walked away.

The noise of the party swirled around her and Hayge fought to get her breath back. She couldn't believe she'd just . . . She'd said . . . Why hadn't she thought . . . Oh god, Hayge thought miserably. Oh god, the sexiest man she'd ever met, and in less than five minutes she'd managed to insult him. And the host of this party . . . Hayge closed her eyes for a moment in utter humiliation. Casey was going to kill her.

"Hayge," and right on cue, there was Casey's tense voice and sharp elbow, knocking into Hayge's arm. "Hayge, please tell me you weren't just trying to pick up Mark Salling."

Hayge took a big mouthful of the excellent champagne and opened her eyes, looking blindly out the huge window as she swallowed. "That," she said wryly, "wasn't what I was trying to do."

"Oh for the love of god, Hayge," Casey saw through her, and Hayge sighed. "I thought we had an agreement here. I thought . . ."

"Casey," she said quietly, still staring at the window. "I had no idea who he was. He didn't tell me his last name. Or anything, really," she added. She took another gulp of her champagne, feeling it burn down her throat. "I insulted his taste. Or maybe his decorator's taste," she added morosely.

"Oh god," Casey said quietly. "Hayge, I can't believe . . . Mark Salling is a VP at Antaeus Corp. Everyone knows who he is; he's been on the cover of _Business Week_," he added. "He's the most ruthless businessman in New York, and his company is our client. And you tried to pick him up and then you insulted him? In his own house?" Casey sounded desperate. Hayge sighed again. "And since when have you learned to _socialize _with my work people? Or with anybody in two legs for that matter?"

"Hey, I offered to introduce him to you," she offered weakly, and Casey practically snarled at her.

"I can't _believe_ you," he hissed. "You, that's, oh fuck. Hayge."

"Hey, it's not that bad," Hayge said quietly, turning to face Casey. "I mean, yeah, I came on pretty strong, but he wasn't exactly shooting me down." She raised her head and started to scan the room, searching for the slender figure, the head full of dark hair. There, by the fireplace, speaking calmly with two other men in similar formal dress. As Hayge's eyes lit on him Mark raised his head, and Hayge felt the impact of those eyes from all the way across the room.

Her heart was screaming again. "As a matter of fact," Hayge said slowly, staring hard, "As a matter of fact, he approached me first." Their eyes locked across the room and as Hayge watched Mark tilted his head and gave her a very small, speculative smile.

Hayge felt a rush of adrenaline and kept from gasping with an effort. Instead she smiled back and nodded, and felt a surge of sharp anticipation as Mark's eyes lingered on her before he turned back to finish his conversation. Hayge watched as Mark moved away from the two men, greeted another, and headed toward the far corner of the big room, possibly to speak to the musicians. Hayge glanced at the clock; it was getting late, but perhaps all was not lost.

Question was though… why her? There were so many beautiful, model-esque women prancing around the vicinity, with their queenly statures and thousand-dollar dresses. But why her? She barely blended in with her outward and very honest air of "averageness." Hayge mentally rolled her eyes at the poorly-coined word.

"You're leaving," Casey was informing her. "You're leaving right now, you're getting in a cab and going back to my apartment, or to wherever you want to go as long as it isn't _here_. You are leaving before you ruin my entire career and life. No," he added as Hayge turned a big smile on him. "No, don't even think about it, Hayge. No way."

"Casey," Hayge said distractedly, as if Casey hadn't spoken at all. "Excuse me for a moment."

"Where are you . . . No, Hayge, wait . . ."

Hayge didn't even hear him as she moved away and started working her way slowly across the room. The string quartet had stopped playing and Mark was speaking with one of the musicians, getting interrupted every few seconds by someone shaking his hand and, apparently, saying goodnight. There was a general but very slow exodus of people toward the wide hallway leading to the elevator. Hayge grimaced. It was going to take a while to get two hundred people down to the lobby in one elevator.

A trio of perfectly dressed business men seemed intent on having Mark ride to the Met with them in their limo, and Hayge eased up beside Mark just as he turned away from graciously declining the offer. He was smiling as he came face to face with Hayge, and he casually held out his hand to shake, for all the world as if they'd known each other forever.

"How very nice of you to come tonight, Hayge," Mark said smoothly, and Hayge struggled to keep her composure as he felt that warm palm slide slowly against hers again.

"Thank you for inviting me," she replied with some semblance of composure, and for a moment they grinned at each other before Mark released her hand. "Listen, I want to apologize for what I said earlier, about your place here . . ." Hayge gestured vaguely at the room, and Mark tilted his head slightly, his eyes bright on Hayge's face.

"I don't know, Hayge. The more I think about it, the more I feel as if I've been bitterly insulted." His smile was brilliant, and his eyes intent, and Hayge was caught by them like a deer in the headlights. "Really, I'm not sure that you're capable of making it up to me."

Hayge held his eyes and smiled slowly. She dropped her voice so Mark had to lean closer to hear. "Actually, I think I am. Capable, I mean." She paused, and added, "And I'm sure this place isn't nearly as impersonal when it's not wall-to-wall people." She held her breath and waited for Mark's response.

Mark's facial expression did not change but his smile suddenly seemed sharper, his eyes even browner. "Well, why don't you stick around, and find out," he said lightly, and with a final electric look he turned away to speak with another group of people.

Heart pounding, Hayge stepped aside and moved away as Mark began speaking to a woman in a beautiful burgundy silk gown with a king's ransom of jewels around her throat. Mark held her hand as she spoke, and she was gesticulating with her free hand and tilting her head and exhibiting all sorts of flirtatious behavior. Hayge heard Mark say something about how he was just back from Milan and needed to give the New York office some attention, but of course, he'd definitely call her in a couple of weeks. This was accompanied by a smile so breathtaking that Hayge's throat went dry and it apparently had a similar effect on the woman, who simply nodded and smiled as Mark pressed a kiss to her cheek and turned to smile at an older gentleman who tapped him on the shoulder.

Hayge hung back by the fireplace, making herself inconspicuous as the party attendees moved slowly from the room and to the elevator. She saw Casey moving purposefully toward her and cut him off with a smile.

"Hey," she said quietly as Casey drew near. "Thank you so much for bringing me with you tonight. I think I'll just hang out here for a while." She took another glass of champagne from a passing waiter and sipped at it to hide her grin. "You should feel free to go on to the opera without me."

Casey stared at her as if she'd sprouted another head.

"Yes," Hayge added. "I'm absolutely serious."

"Hayge," Casey murmured seriously. "This isn't you. I know you. You're not the kind of girl who easily agrees to be enticed upon by random rich men, especially who I believe, are relentless business men who have established a reputation and name for themselves. This guy is known for his unforgiving, unmerciful business tactics and I'm sure he's not the kind of guy you'd want to have your first one-night-stand with. He's just… he's… He's Mark Salling."

"And hot."

Again, Casey's pretty blue eyes popped open like saucers. "Hey, listen to me. I promised your mother I'd look after you. We've practically grown up together, even shared the same pillow until highschool."

Hayge regarded him steadily. "What's your point?"

"My point is I can't let you, the only Hayge in my life, commit a spectacular mistake like this and have it on my conscience."

"Mark Salling's not an ex-convict, is he?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then I don't _care_, Casey." Hayge drained her champagne glass, her eyes on Mark as he bid farewell to another large group of glittering people. Her stomach was fluttering in the best possible way, and she couldn't wipe the smile off her face as she turned back to Casey. "Seriously, babe. I'm single, I'm of age, I have cab fare, and I can take care of myself. Just, you know, go to the opera. And I'll see you later."

Casey frowned sternly at her for a moment, then sighed. "You're right," he said. "You're right, I'm sorry, I don't mean to act like your mother." He straightened up and glanced around. "Okay then, I'm going to take off." He raised an eyebrow and quirked a sly grin at Hayge. "Have fun." And looked down to the floor to mutter something like, "Jesus, I can't believe I just said that."

"You know it," Hayge murmured, and grinned at him as he moved away. The room was thinning out, and Hayge set her glass down and followed a short hallway until she found a large bathroom.

She washed her hands, rinsed out her mouth and anxiously inspected her reflection in the large mirror. She frowned at her almost sad black overall. It was fine, but it was off the rack and nowhere near the quality of Mark's, or most of the people's he'd seen here tonight. She brushed at the hem of the dress and rubbed her hand over her jaw and checked her hair, grateful that it was on its best behaviour that night. She looked fine. She wasn't a Marilyn Monroe but she wasn't as dishevelled as she might've expected. That was good enough.

She waited a decent length of time before returning to the living room. When she emerged from the hallway she blinked in astonishment. Mark's staff was really something - the room had been cleaned and straightened and transformed back into a reasonable sort of living space, complete with furniture, subdued lighting, and Mark, seated on a black leather couch with his suit jacket gone and his tie loosened. His brown eyes examined Hayge intently from over the rim of his champagne glass. Hayge's heart was hammering in her chest and pounded in her ears, and she walked toward Mark on legs that didn't quite feel steady.

As he drew closer Mark set his glass down on a table and rose to his feet to face her. "So," he said quietly. "What do you think now?"

Hayge cast a cursory look around the almost-empty room and smiled. "It's a great room for a big party," she said diplomatically, and felt her pulse accelerate when Mark grinned at her.

"Yes, it is that," he said agreeably. "Maybe you'd like to see some more of the place?"

"I would," Hayge answered, and eased herself closer so that she was just at the edge of Mark's personal space. Mark's eyes grew dark and his smile faded. He took a single, purposeful step that brought his mouth within inches of Hayge's, and Hayge focused on his full, soft-looking lips.

"Well then. Come with me," Mark murmured, and when he turned away Hayge followed in a daze.

He led her down another hallway and up a half flight of stairs, into a huge bedroom that must have been right above the main room they'd been in. Hayge had a confused impression of long windows, wood floors, indirect lighting, thick floor rugs in warm colors and a large bed against the opposite wall, but all she could really focus on was the small smile on Mark's lips and the flush across his cheekbones when he turned to face her. 

She was honestly charmed in every possible way.

Hayge wanted to say something, something devastating and cool, something to make Mark look at him with the sort of desperation Hayge was starting to feel. But her heart was pounding so hard, thudding in her ears and beating in her chest and making her hands shake. She couldn't seem to draw enough oxygen. Mark's eyes examined her face closely, and his smile faded. Without a word he leaned in and brought his mouth firmly to Hayge's.

The room seemed to spin and Hayge choked back a moan as Mark's lips smoothed persuasively against her own, warm and soft as they coaxed her to open. Her hands reached blindly forward when he manuevered their bodies against a wall, and found Mark's waist, and the warmth of his skin through the fine cotton shirt made her gasp. She wanted her hands on that smooth and heated skin; she wanted to grip Mark's head in her hands and explore every inch of his mouth; she wanted to scrape her fingertips through Mark's short dark fuzz; she wanted to tear his clothes off and drag him to the floor right where they stood.

But heaven be kind the surrounding was becoming a blur, the smooth glide of Mark's mouth stealing all her focus and making her dizzy with lust. She could her own desperate moans, how her voice tried to form words but failed.

"Easy," Mark murmured against her lips, and Hayge realized that her fingers had tightened desperately on Mark's waist, digging hard into his skin and twisting the cloth. She loosened them and pressed her palms against the warmth, sliding them up to Mark's ribs. Mark made an encouraging noise in the back of his throat and eased a little closer, standing toe to toe with Hayge as their tongues tangled slowly, drawing another low moan from her. Mark's fingers were traveling up and down the front of Hayge's dress, lingering at each button but making no move to undo them as his mouth continued to wreak havoc on Hayge's senses. She didn't even notice that Mark had already unzipped her from behind until she heard the material hit the floor and she opened her eyes helplessly, dazed. Then Mark's mouth moved across her jaw and to the soft skin under her left ear, and Hayge closed her eyes again, lost in the pleasure, in the feeling of it all.

Then she could feel him spread her legs apart, hiking up the skirt, which was the only non-undergarment she had on, up her thighs and his hips pressing into her. Hayge shuddered when she felt the rage between Mark's strong legs and surrendered to the buckle in her knees. She held her head tilted back, letting his lips make sweet love to her neck, her throat, her jaw, and was unable to open her eyes, or even close her mouth. This was too good. This can't be happening to her.

Then his mouth found her lips. And Hayge felt the heat between her own legs at the lazy curl of his tongue against hers. She almost melted right there, against the wall. The haze swirling in her vision wasn't helping at all.

But then her brain snapped into action.

Her fingers shook as she brought them to Mark's throat, stroking the warm skin before fumbling with the knot of his tie. It was already loosened and Hayge pulled it off with a great deal less finesse than Mark had done hers, shaking it loose from Mark's collar and tossing it to the floor. She paused and gulped convulsively, shivering at the feel of Mark's tongue on the thin skin over her collar bone. Then Mark was easing Hayge's skirt down her legs, smiling and murmuring appreciatively as his hands smoothed over the warm skin of her inner thighs and crept up to her back, pulling her hard against his body.

The feel of Mark's fine cotton shirt against the over-sensitized skin of her chest made Hayge close her eyes and groan softly. Her fingers lost all coordination as they fumbled with the buttons on Mark's shirt, and froze completely when Mark's hands moved low on her waist and pulled her hips closer, closer, tight against him until their bodies nestled together in all the right ways. "There, now," Mark whispered in Hayge's ear, his breath warm and making her shiver into a desperate sheet of giant nerve endings as he moved one leg between Hayge's and eased her closer, his hands firm on Hayge's hips. "Better?"

Hayge nodded frantically and squirmed against the delicious friction, her mouth open as she panted for air. Mark's hands were burning the skin at her waist as they slid around and started to slowly work at the waistband of her panties. Hayge leaned forward, her mouth searching blindly for Mark's as her hands scrabbled at his shirt, trying to pull it out of his pants. The tug of pleasure down her belly was painful and almost overwhelming. She twisted slowly against Mark's thigh and made a strangled noise of desperation when Mark lifted his head and gave her a gentle kiss, the contrast to the forceful nudges of his tongue stealing what little concentration Hayge had altogether.

The slow slide of Mark's tongue was driving Hayge to distraction and she struggled to keep focused. She needed to get Mark's clothes off, she needed to get her hands on his skin, she needed to get them both horizontal. Which was all terrifying.

Because Hayge never, ever, ever, _ever…_ wanted a man this much, a stranger, no less, someone she had never even met before. Hayge had barely even had conventional sex with her latest boyfriend, which technically, was her only boyfriend. What was happening to her? And why in God's name was she so frustratedly aroused? She beckoned all the gods to come down and give her a fucking explanation.

She felt like the horniest 14-year-old teenager in the world at the moment.

She wanted to do this suavely, but she didn't quite succeed - at least one button popped off beneath Hayge's impatient fingers - but Mark didn't seem to mind, grinning against Hayge's mouth and chuckling low in his throat in a way that made Hayge want to rip the rest of his clothes off, right now.

"Heels off," Mark murmured, bringing his mouth back to Hayge's, moving hypnotically against her lips. "Now."

Hayge managed to blindly toe her black heels off without breaking contact with Mark's mouth or body. She'd finally gotten Mark's shirt open and was mesmerized by the silky warmth of his perfectly tanned skin; his lean waist and stomach, ridged with muscle; the hints of hair arrowing down toward the waistband of his pants. Mark's hands were busy at the front of Hayge's panties and Hayge pulled her lips away from Mark's gorgeous mouth as she felt her only weapon of protection being pulled slowly down. She panted helplessly, dropping her forehead to Mark's shoulder as Mark touched her thighs with comforting, languid strokes. Hayge trembled so hard her teeth chattered, and Mark crooned sympathetically. She felt the desire pool between her legs to an uncompromising degree as her panties reached her ankles, down to the bottom of her feet.

"That bad, huh?" he whispered, and Hayge lifted her head and opened her eyes in time to see Mark lick his lips and smile. The sight almost made her whimper. Mark pulled Hayge off the wall and slowly pushed her backwards with one finger on the middle of his chest, and even as her body screamed protests at the loss of contact, Hayge obediently shuffled one small step and felt the smooth edge of what she assumed was Mark's bed and sat down.

Mark was still dressed in his shoes and pants, with his dress shirt on but hanging open. Hayge reached her hands out but Mark ignored them, efficiently stripping his underpants and slacks from his body, leaving him naked and all for Hayge's viewing pleasure.

Hayge felt feverish, her body aching and her skin tingling and sensitized. She felt like she couldn't get enough air and she couldn't keep herself from squirming restlessly on Mark's thick comforter. She started to sit up, reaching out to touch Mark and to pull him down on the bed with her, but once again Mark neatly avoided her hands. He leaned down and wrapped his hands around her chest, amazed at the dexterity of his fingers as they unhooked his bra from behind expertly, watching Hayge's face intently as she closed his eyes and groaned, thrashing helplessly when his hands slowly stroked her mounds. 

Then Mark slowly, slowly crawled on the bed and placed himself perfectly between Hayge's aching legs. She could feel the hardness pressed right into her thighs, nearing her center. She moaned into his mouth, a frustrated, desperate sound, as though to plead and beg FUCKJUSTDOITALREADY and tried not to collapse under the aching strain in her core.

Her eyes were shut tightly, as if that would give her some sense of control, and her legs clung helplessly around his waist. Mark had to move or she'd shoot herself right in the head.

Then like the Greek god Adonis himself, Mark brushed away all the bangs that formed a mess on Hayge's sweaty forehead and kissed her there. It was such a tender moment that Hayge had to look away.

"Mark…" her voice manage to croak.

"Yes?"

"Please."

Mark placed his mouth against hers to drown out the inevitable cry as he gently slid into her. The pleasure of it slammed through Hayge's body; her heels dug into his skin and her spine twisted, arching right off the bed. Mark's hands travelled down and scooped her slightly from the bed, his arm supporting the broadness of her back, and it wasn't until then that she realized how strong Mark was. Hayge's eyelids were tugging her eyes close from the feel of him, the thickness of him, right inside her. But he was whispering something in her ear.

"Hayge, look at me."

Seriously, now? When my mind is practically shutting down from all this pleasure?

"Hayge, I wanna see your eyes."

Hayge struggled, fought under the heaviness in her eyes and gazed up at him. His brown eyes were now black, pupils dilated from arousal, and his forehead was covered in a sheath of sparkling sweat. Hayge's legs trembled as she felt him slide in deeper, inch by inch.

She managed to keep her eyes open with that one, but it wasn't easy. It was beautiful to see the quiet struggle in his eyes, telling him not to lose control and to do this slowly, and gently. Hayge felt herself crying.

This was gonna be a long night.

~*2*~

Hayge woke slowly, her body stiff and exhausted and her brain numb. There were soft lips and a slick tongue sliding up and down the curve of her neck, and if she wasn't so exhausted she would smile. But this was the third, or possibly the fourth time she'd been woken up this night, in this bed, and her body was already firmly informing her that it had nothing left to give.

"Hayge," a voice whispered in her ear, the soft breath making her shiver. Just like the last time she'd woken from a light doze to find Mark's mouth on her throat and his hand on Hayge's already-awake thighs, and he'd rolled her over so she was facing him and guided their bodies together and it had been so good, so good it had almost hurt Hayge when she'd come for the fourth, or was it the fifth, time that night . . .

"C'mon, Hayge." Mark's voice was so sexy, low and dark and amused, and it did something amazing to her brain because just the sound of it made Hayge's body react in ways she'd thought impossible just moments before. She took a deep breath and prepared to stretch, testing out her soreness factor. She rolled over to her back and opened her eyes, ready to smile.

The room was glowing with the pre-sunrise light, suffusing it with warmth. Mark was naked, the sheets covering him to the waist, one hand propping up his head. His eyes were knowing and intimate, his smile lazy.

"It's time for you to go," he said softly, and Hayge froze before she could smile in return.

Mark gazed steadily at her as his words echoed in her ears.

"Go?" Hayge blinked at him in disbelief. Mark wanted her to leave?

Apparently so: Mark nodded.

It took a moment for this to sink in, and when it did Hayge closed her mouth with an audible snap. She turned away and sat up, hoping to hide her flush of humiliation. She could practically feel Mark's eyes on her back, and Hayge climbed as swiftly from the bed as her stiff body would allow.

Her clothes were still in a heap on the floor and Hayge dressed as quickly as she could, keeping her back turned as she pulled on the clothes from the night before. The silence thudded in her ears and her breath was short. Her face felt like it was on fire. She shoved her feet ruthlessly into her still-tied heels. Gathering her courage, she glanced at the bed.

Mark still reclined against the headboard, his mouth still curved in a small, sated smile. "It was really nice to meet you, Hayge," he said quietly.

"Same here," Hayge said, relieved that her voice came out normally despite her dry throat. "I'll, uh, just have the doorman get me a cab," she added, and bolted for the door without looking back.

~ ~ ~ ~

Ah, the joys of the morning-after walk of shame, Hayge thought as she exited the elevator in her rumpled evening clothes and saw the attendant's impassive face and carefully averted eyes. The gleaming mirrors inside the elevator had told her everything she needed to know: she had red, blurry eyes, a swollen mouth, a sheet-crease on the left side of her face and a lurid hickey at the base of her throat. She lifted her chin and strode directly for the main lobby doors, murmuring in assent when the doorman offered to hail her a cab. Less than a minute later she was safely inside the taxi and giving Casey's address to the driver, and as the cab pulled away Hayge leaned back against the seat with a deep sigh, her body relaxing into bonelessness. She felt numb - she couldn't believe she'd given up her virginity (technically) the night before only to be woken up less than ten minutes ago so she could be tossed out of the building. She closed her eyes and thought about nothing at all.

Twenty minutes later the sun had come up and Hayge was quietly letting herself in to Casey's apartment. She pulled the key gingerly from the lock as the door opened, not wanting to disturb Casey or his roommates, but as luck would have it Casey was sitting at the kitchen counter, eating cereal and reading the newspaper. He stopped in mid-crunch when he saw Hayge come through the door, and his eyebrows shot all the way up to his hairline.

"Jesus Christ," he said, spitting cereal crumbs all over the table. Hayge rubbed a hand over her face and laughed a little.

"No, not this time," she said, her voice sounding raspy even to herself. "It's only me."

Casey stared at him, his forehead wrinkling a little. "Should I ask how you're feeling?" he ventured cautiously. He looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or be concerned.

Hayge closed the door behind her and tossed her raincoat onto a hook by the door. "I don't really know," she admitted, and Casey set his spoon down slowly, his eyes intent. Hayge eased herself gingerly into the chair opposite and pulled the open box of cereal toward her, reaching in for a dry handful. The scene felt so comforting and familiar - she was reminded of college, talking over the previous night's parties on early mornings during the three years he and Casey had shared a dorm and then an apartment.

"Well," Hayge started slowly. "I met this really great guy, smart and very, very hot, and I had a marathon night of the best sex of my entire _life_. And then," she continued wryly, "I got kicked out before the sun came up, sort of like I was a hooker." She crunched his cereal thoughtfully. "Maybe even a sub-par hooker," she added, and paused to grab another handful of Captain Crunch. "So, I guess I'd say that I was feeling great until, oh, half an hour ago. Now," she summed up, rooting in the cereal box and not meeting Casey's eyes, "now I pretty much feel like shit." She raised his eyes to Casey's and smiled humorlessly around a mouthful of cereal. "And how are you today?"

Casey smiled sympathetically and shook his head. "I told you not to get mixed up with that guy, Hayge. He's not like people in college or back home. He's a rich, ruthless, scary business man, and he's well-known and important and . . . Well, I'm not surprised he treated you like shit." He resumed eating, his eyes sympathetic. "I'm _sorry_ he treated you like shit," he added. "But I'm not surprised." He frowned as Hayge dug into the cereal box again, and pushed the milk carton across the table. "And get a bowl, would you? Jesus."

Hayge rolled her eyes before rising slowly and moving to the kitchen for a bowl and a spoon. Her body ached languidly in half a dozen good and bad ways. She would enjoy each of them if she weren't feeling so fucking humiliated, she thought, and felt a dull sort of resentment against Mark. What a buzz kill.

She didn't want to think about Mark anymore. In fact, she thought determinedly, she didn't want to think about him at all, ever again. Starting right this minute.

"So, how was the opera?" she asked Casey as she walked back to the table, bowl in hand.

"It was pretty good," Casey said, and his blue eyes glinted with mischief. "During intermission I heard Mark Salling's grandfather telling someone that Mark couldn't make the performance because he had a, and I quote, 'very important business conference.'" Casey grinned as Hayge choked on her milk. "Yeah, I was amused."

"A business conference," Hayge murmured, and shook her head. "Well thank god he didn't notice the person who was, uh, actually hanging around waiting for everyone to leave," she said.

"Not that it really matters to you," Casey pointed out. "You're leaving next week anyway."

"Yeah, but I'll be back in a couple of months," Hayge said thoughtfully, and Casey folded his newspaper and set it firmly aside.

"Even then, it's not like you and the Salling family will be running in the same circles," he said sternly. "Unless he's on the cover of some magazine, you'll probably never see him again."

"Yeah, and thank god," Hayge muttered, and sighed.

Casey's sharp eyes watched her closely as he spooned up his cereal. "Best sex of your whole life?" he asked, and smiled as Hayge nodded morosely. Then Casey frowned. "Ahhh, why am I even asking? You should be having a girl friend over to talk to you about these kinds of things."

Hayge felt the will to smile. "But you _are_ my girl friend."

Casey laughed and shook his head. "Too bad that Salling guy is such an ass, huh, or I would've been able to get to know him better."

For a moment she remembered Mark's slow smile and husky, teasing voice, his gentle fingers and warm mouth and the way his body had curved and flexed . . . Hayge's jaw tightened as she thrust the memory aside. "It sure is," she replied casually, and bent to her cereal.

Ain't no way she was gonna cry over this. Ain't no way.

~ *3*~ ~

Mark sat motionless and waited for his grandfather to arrive at the club for lunch, a martini in front of him and a handsome waiter at his side anxiously watching his water glass, eager to fill it at any moment should Mark pick it up and drain it all at once. It was nearly noon, but the lazy, sated heaviness he felt from the previous night continued to linger. Mark closed his eyes, his mouth curving into a small, satisfied smile as he remembered the taste of Hayge's skin, the small of her back, the soft, breathy sounds she'd made just before she came.

As was his usual practice, Mark had kicked her out at the break of dawn - it was both messy and unpleasant to make a one-night stand any longer than one night - but she really had been exquisite, and for just a moment, Mark wished that he'd talked to her a little more, maybe gotten her phone number, seen if they could hook up again. It was a shame that he hadn't, but such was life, and Mark had far too many other things to worry about to waste much time on regret.

The club was always busy during lunch, but this never mattered to the Salling family, who tended to eat their meals in private dining rooms instead of among the throng. For years now Mark had been meeting his grandfather here once a month to discuss work, family, and anything else that came to mind. Most times they ended up talking about work: Mark's grandfather was the single person Mark knew who was more dedicated to Antaeus than he was, and his grandfather loved to bounce ideas off of Mark even though he didn't always take his advice. That was actually fine, because one day, Mark knew, he would be in his grandfather's position - one day, he would make all of the decisions - and when that time came, he could do whatever he wanted with the company. Until that day, however, Mark was content to follow his grandfather's lead. He was old and crotchety, but he was deadly smart. Mark had learned nearly everything he knew about business from him.

Finally, the old man appeared, and Mark frowned as he watched him limping slightly. His knees were probably bothering him again - his grandfather had been an enthusiastic athlete in his own day, and his doctor had told him just last month that he was going to need knee replacement surgery in the next year or so. Mark fought the urge to protectively slide his hands over his own kneecaps, then stood up to greet his grandfather, who hugged him, pounded him on the back, and took a seat.

The new arrival prompted a flurry of action from the silent waiter: a scotch and a bottle of wine were brought to the table, it was quickly confirmed that the two men would eat exactly what they always did, and another glass of water to be watched over was provided. Once he and his grandfather were alone, Mark looked carefully across the table, trying to ascertain his grandfather's mood. All signs veered toward grumpiness, which was absolutely normal and indicated that everything was just fine. Mark took a deep breath and prepared to listen.

"Feelings," Mark's grandfather began in an aggravated, crabby voice, and Mark was very, very careful not to smile. "I'll tell you, young man - I never had a feeling in my life. When I grew up nobody cared how you felt about something - they just wanted you to put your head down, shut up, and get your work done. And we did! That's exactly what we did."

"I know," Mark said, and it was true. His grandfather had worked every day of his life since he was in his teens.

"Yes you do." His grandfather leaned forward and beamed at him with still-brilliant blue eyes. "You're a good boy - you work hard, and you've done a wonderful job. I'm proud of you."

"Thanks, Grandpa," Mark said. "I -"

"Now, your brother - that's another issue altogether," his grandfather interrupted, and Mark sighed inwardly. His grandfather had some definite opinions about Tyler.

"When you were his age, you were top of the class, big man on campus, all of it. You took your business courses, you got your M.B.A., and you went to Europe to work - you planned it out and you executed it just like a man. And now Tyler - all I hear from him is 'I don't like that major! It doesn't feel right to me!'" His grandfather waved his big hands in the air in a gesture of bewilderment and annoyance. "What the hell, Mark?"

Mark spoke carefully. "He'll figure something out. Not everyone is as - focused as I was, but that could actually be a good thing. You know how smart Tyler is, and you know he'll do well in the end, no matter what he chooses to study."

"Hmph," his grandfather crankily said, then settled back into his chair and relaxed a bit. "That was a nice party you gave last night."

Mark took a sip of wine, put down his glass, and nodded. "Yes. I'm glad you thought so."

"I don't really go in for all that fancy food, or for the ridiculous decorating scheme you've got going in your public rooms. It's like walking through a metal box, very cold and sterile."

Good lord - was everyone a critic? "Grandpa, those are - I paid a designer thousands of dollars to make it look that way, and I like it. I mean, in terms of design alone, it -"

"Yes, yes, I'm quite sure it's all very fabulous," his grandfather brusquely said. "Well, no matter how horrible the decorating, you at least had a few very pretty young ladies there."

"Yes. Definitely." Mark knew exactly what was coming next.

"Yes, lots of pretty young ladies," his grandfather repeated dreamily, and then looked conspiratorially at Mark. "I was going to ask you why I didn't see you at the theater afterward, but I'm pretty sure I've just answered my own question."

Mark thought again of Hayge on her back, the long, gradual curve of her torso in the dim light, her head turning restlessly back and forth on the pillow as Mark had made love to her, had gone in deep and slow and in exactly the right way, over and over again. He thought of the particular pitch Hayge's voice had taken right before she'd given way completely, the lovely, desperate, hungry tenor of it, and -

"If I didn't know you better, I'd say you were blushing," his grandfather teased, and Mark really did blush then, ducking his head and fighting desperately for control. Why was he acting like such a fool over a single one-night stand? He really needed to get it together.

"It's all right," his grandfather said magnanimously. "You're young, you're handsome, you're unattached - these things happen. It's perfectly normal. I just hope you realize that this isn't something you can be doing for the rest of your life."

"Oh, no. I -"

"Because at one time or another, Mark, you've got to settle down, devote yourself to family and career just like I did."

Mark smiled faintly and kept his mouth shut as he remembered the wistful looks that had passed over his grandmother's face as she told him that his grandfather would yet again miss dinner, or the movie they'd been planning to see, or a trip to the cabin, or Mark's birthday party. She'd always been so careful to say that he loved them all very much, to let Mark know that while grandpa wanted to spend time with them, he simply couldn't get away. But eventually he'd learned to forgive his grandfather for his many absences. The company demanded his time in ways that family didn't, and that was just how things were.

"But why am I lecturing you? I know you'll come through for me in the end." His grandfather smiled warmly at him. "You always do."

They paused then as the waiter sat down a steak in front of Mark's grandfather - very rare, just the way he liked it - and grilled salmon for Mark. For a few moments they ate silently; then, his grandfather lifted his head, pointed his fork at Mark, and said, "The figures from Europe - you did quite well."

"It was lucrative, yes," Mark acknowledged, because he had done well; he'd worked efficiently and tirelessly and it had paid off: new sources of capital, plans for further acquisitions, a series of deals that Mark knew no one else could have pulled off. He could definitely feel pleased with himself on this count.

"You've got the Salling touch all right," his grandfather said proudly, and then shook his head and grimaced. "I just wish that I had ten of you. New York has been hell as of late."

Mark gave his grandfather a long, steady look. He knew for a fact that all their major holdings in America were doing just fine, and so there was only one thing the old man could be talking about, namely-

" - Phoenix Press," his grandfather was saying. "God knows I love that publishing house, but I'm not sure how much longer I want to keep taking hits with it."

"Grandpa, it's publishing, and it's not a big commercial house. We've known forever that we're not going to turn much of a profit on it." Mark spoke quickly as thoughts of his grandmother and how much she'd loved the press filled his mind. "We knew that from the start, and we decided -"

"I know, I know." His grandfather picked up his knife again and began to slice impatiently at his steak. "But every year their deficit grows, and I'm starting to get sick of it."

"But again, that press was never intended to be a big money-maker. Remember what Grandma always said? There's a mission to that kind of publishing, a higher purpose."

"Yes, well, they're high all right. They're two million dollars high - two million dollars alone last year. And each year it gets worse."

Mark frowned, because that really was a lot. "Well, it's a depressed business. Too many books are published each year and not enough people buy them. But just because the press is in trouble right now -"

"No one reads anymore! What people do these days is play around on the damn Internet! They waste all the time in the world talking into cell phones and writing e-mails!"

"I know, I know," Mark said and then, not at all wanting to hear that particular rant again, quickly added, "But what about Phoenix? What are you planning to do with it?"

"I have an offer from Bertelsmann." His grandfather took a long drink of wine and grunted in approval. "They collect presses like salt shakers."

Mark sat back and thought of his grandmother and tried to conceal the horror he felt at the idea of a giant conglomerate owning the family-based business she had devoted so much of her time to. Takeovers and acquisitions felt very different when you were on the wrong end of them.

"Look, I'm sure it doesn't have to come to that," he said as smoothly and as persuasively as he could. "They just need someone to come in and set them straight. I mean, all they think about is books - I'm sure they don't understand business the way we do."

"Well they should. I'm sick and tired of it, sick of their stupid excuses and their shoddy performance year in and year out. No, I'm quite sure of it - the thing to do is sell."

"But Grandma -" Mark frowned as he watched his grandfather flinch, then went on anyway. "Grandma loved the press so much, remember? You weren't the only one who cared about work."

"Well, no, but her _primary_ responsibility was always toward the family. Publishing was just something she dabbled in."

"You know that's not true - you know how important it was to her," Mark said evenly, ignoring his grandfather's increasingly uncomfortable gestures. "And so I think we should try to save it."

"I'm a businessman, Mark. I'm not about to let my feelings get in the way of business decisions that need to be made, and neither should you. Absolutely not."

For a long, horrible moment, they locked eyes until Mark quietly said, "Two years. Give me two years with it - let me go in there and restructure and I - I'll lower that deficit by half in two years, Grandpa. If I can do that, would you reconsider?"

"Two years? I'm not about to waste you on a useless charity mission for that long." The old man was growing truly irritable now.

"Okay, how about this," Mark proposed, thinking evenly and clearly, trying as always to figure out how to pitch the deal, how to bring home exactly what he wanted. "I work one year intensively, set them up, help them reorganize. During that time I continue with my responsibilities to the Antaeus board of directors - and once it's over, I step back even further, become a consultant to them. And if they're not turned around by then, then we really should sell, because if I can't fix it -"

Mark trailed off, held his breath, and waited for his grandfather to smile, relaxing imperceptibly when it finally came.

"If you can't fix it, my boy, nobody can," his grandfather finished, and laughed. 


	2. Chapter 2

"Hayge, thank god you're here," Rynan said as Hayge passed the open door to his office. Hayge paused and looked in at her supervisor and friend.

"How can you even think amid such filth?" Hayge asked, gazing over the chaos that was Rynan's office and leaning casually against the door jamb. Rynan shrugged and made a face at her. They'd established soon after Hayge arrived that their work styles and habits were grossly dissimilar.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah - tell me something I don't know. Your author meeting go okay?"

"I think so." Hayge spoke guardedly, because she really wasn't quite sure - she thought she'd been able to convince Thomas Kearney that Phoenix Press was the best publisher for her book, but Hayge had heard that the man was also being courted by several other larger houses, and Kearney hadn't reacted well when Hayge had tried to push their conversation toward talk of a contract. This made Hayge very uneasy.

"Wherever you just went, I'd appreciate it if you came back."

Hayge startled a bit, then looked apologetically at Rynan, who was obviously amused.

"Sorry. It's just that I really want this guy for us, and he's playing hard to get."

Rynan rolled his eyes. "Why you persist in making a play for people we're never gonna sign anyway is beyond me, Hayge. Seriously? You'd be a lot happier if you did what I do, which is rely on the contacts you already have instead of going out there and playing social director. It works just as well and it's a hell of a lot less stressful."

"Yeah, but Rynan, I still think - I mean, we've talked about this before, but I think it helps, you know? To diversify the list a bit," Hayge carefully said, because this was another area of philosophical difference between them. "Your list is solid - I mean, no one does better serious studies of musicology and music theory, so I think that for my part, I should - well. You know. Bring in things that might have a wider audience."

"Yes, yes," Rynan said aimlessly, already checking out, and Hayge sighed a little. Thus far, Rynan had been a great boss, but he refused to argue matters like these, preferring to continue along the path he'd established years ago, when the landscape of publishing was vastly different. Someday Hayge was really going to have a serious conversation with him about it, because she had a horrible, unsettling feeling that their department - the music division of acquisitions - was losing money, and that this would not be allowed to continue indefinitely.

But now was not the time for that.

Rynan gestured expansively and focused on Hayge again. "Sit - make yourself comfortable."

Hayge looked dubiously at the single chair in the office. It was covered with Rynan's interoffice mail: memos from others in the acquiring department announcing their new books (several of these were from Hayge, although she was pretty sure Rynan had no idea of it), various catalogs from other publishers, and several envelopes and boxes bulging with the telltale shape of manuscripts. Hayge, who had her assistant neatly catalogue and log in each new manuscript the moment it arrived, glanced in alarm at the postage mark on one of them: it had probably been sitting in this chair for at least a month.

"Jesus, Rynan - wanna maybe look at your mail once in a blue moon?" she jibed, and Rynan laughed.

"I don't know why - it's always the same stupid shit. Um - yeah. Go ahead and put that there," he said as he watched Hayge carefully transfer the pile to the floor since all other available surfaces in the office were already covered.

Situating herself uneasily in the too-small chair, Hayge looked levelly at her boss. "Okay, so shoot."

Rynan sighed, then glanced at the door. "I'm not gonna close the door because I don't wanna look suspicious, but we've got to keep this conversation down, okay? I don't want anyone to know about this."

"Rynan, you know I keep my mouth shut. There's nothing to worry about."

"I know, I know," Rynan said, and sighed. He really must have been shaken, Hayge realized. Normally, he was supremely unbothered by the ebb and flow of office life - probably far too unbothered, but that was just Rynan's nature.

"Okay," Rynan finally said. "So this is about the new director. I know you've probably heard that we're getting someone new in here, right?"

Hayge nodded. Gossip had been flying fast about it but until now, she really hadn't concerned herself with it. It simply hadn't seemed relevant to her - she was so far down the totem pole that it would probably take months for any director even to discover her name.

"Yeah. Well, so this new guy came in today to introduce himself at the all-staff meeting -"

Guilt washed over Hayge. "Oh my god - I totally forgot about that. When I scheduled this author meeting, I -"

Rynan waved his hand in a dismissive fashion. "Don't worry about it, Hayge - I knew you were gonna be gone."

Hayge still felt uneasy. "But I should've been there, should've seen -"

"Well, you weren't, and it's okay, and you have to shut up now so I can tell you more about it, okay?"

Hayge relaxed into her chair a bit. "Yeah. Sorry. Go on."

Rynan took a deep breath and shook his head. "Basically, he's an asshole, Hayge, a first-class asshole, and you know I don't apply that label liberally, so take that for what it's worth."

Hayge widened her eyes in amazement. She'd never seen Rynan take such a violent dislike to someone from the start. "That is not good. That is really, really not good."

"Tell me about it." Rynan rolled his eyes. "He got up there in front of all of us in his fancy designer suit and told us we didn't know the first thing about publishing, told us we had no idea what we were doing."

Hayge frowned. Oh god.

"Then, he started going department by department, saying we were all totally irresponsible about money, and when he got to acquiring - man, Hayge. He was all, 'And I'm quite frankly astounded that none of you has any idea how many of your books are even financially viable, and we're going to put a stop to that - right now, that will stop.' And I just - we're not in this for the _money_, you know? No one here is."

Hayge bit her lip a bit. No, she wasn't here for the money, but a small, traitorous part of her couldn't help but sympathize with the general drift of what Rynan was telling her. The press really did need to think more about what worked and what didn't.

"Wow," she said for Rynan. "That's really - wow. Pretty incredible for a first speech. I mean, not exactly the way I'd want to introduce myself to my new company."

"Exactly," Rynan said with feeling. "He was cold and critical, just a real jerk about it. And what's better still is that not only is he going to be Mr. Bottom Line Money Means Everything, he's also going to micro-manage - and that is just - we do not work that way, Hayge, we absolutely don't."

That did give Hayge pause. "Micro-manage how?"

"Well, he tried to conceal it, tried to put it in terms of getting to know what our jobs are, to figure out our systems and stuff, but the baseline is this: he's gonna be at every department meeting for a while - all of 'em."

"God," Hayge said in amazement, because that did sound awful.

"Yeah." Rynan cast his eyes toward the ceiling, then looked unhappily back at Hayge. "So, it's gonna be tough for a while."

Hayge looked unhappily around the chaos that was Rynan's office and tried to stop her whirling mind.

"Jesus. I don't even know what to say. I guess . . . maybe I should know his name at least?"

"Oh, I don't know. Something fancy and truly forgettable," Rynan said viciously, then had the good grace to look a bit abashed. "Um, not that that's necessarily a bad thing."

Hayge looked steadily at him. "Nothing? You can't remember anything other than that?"

"Sorry, but no," Rynan said unhappily. "I must've blocked it out. Anyway, you'll know soon enough, because he's called a big meeting with acquisitions for Wednesday."

"Wednesday." That was just two days away. The sinking feeling was back, and Hayge stood up quickly to make it go away. "I ... I guess I'll go down to my office and start trying to work up financials for my books or something."

Rynan laughed. "I'd hold off on that for right now. I mean, it could be that this guy just comes off poorly on first impression, and you should probably wait until you meet him yourself to form an opinion."

Hayge frowned.

"And at any rate, you and I - we can make it through anything if we just stick together. You got me? Know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Hayge said, but she didn't quite believe it. It sounded like change was definitely on the way, and she, for one, definitely wanted to be prepared for it.

~ ~ ~ ~

Mark sat very still in his office chair, then twirled it so he was looking out the windows at the city and closed his eyes for a few seconds, breathing deep, trying to relax the tension in his neck and upper back. Another rotten day in another rotten week, and if he didn't know deep in his heart that he really did love this press, really did want it to succeed, he'd come in here on a weekend and burn the damn place down.

He'd obviously been hanging out with the corporate finance crowd for too long, because nearly every person he encountered at this press seemed either defensive or incompetent, and often both at once. There had been a few intelligent faces down in marketing when he'd spoken with them earlier in the day - most of that department was probably going to be salvageable. Not so, however, the art department, and Mark grimaced again as he thought of Peter Brumbridge, ninety-two and a publishing legend in himself, and how difficult it had been to say to him (and also everyone under him) that he thought it'd be best for them to start over elsewhere.

But it had had to be done: their covers were lackluster and uninteresting and their book designs much the same. They'd refused to learn how to use computers and were operating at a much higher cost as a result; plus, they'd been freelancing a good deal of their designs anyway to enable themselves to work at a glacial pace on the few books a year each of them did take on. Mark's suggestion that they all take intensive training to get themselves up to speed technologically had been met with blank, unwelcoming stares - and that had more than anything decided him in this regard. He would always attempt to help people who were willing to work with him, but intransigence coupled with ignorance were never, ever acceptable in his world. None of this had made it any easier to give Peter Brumbridge the bad news, but Mark had almost thought he'd seen a degree of relief in the old man's eyes during that most awful of meetings.

Maybe. That of course was what he'd wanted to see.

Mark sighed and rubbed the side of his neck. At least he'd negotiated a decent severance package for Brumbridge - the man would not go uncared for, would not be thrown out in the wind. But Mark had also seen the faces of everyone else in the building as the news had spread: they were furious, terrified, and uneasy, and the tension was seeping through the walls. It wasn't easy to be the object of so much fear and scorn, but Mark was used to it. He got called cold, but he also got results.

And he was going to get results at this press if it killed him, Mark thought, and slowly turned back to his desk to look at the forecast for the fall list the various divisions of the acquiring department had given him. Apart from the fiction list, about which he had nothing to say - the editors here were eminent and this press had always been known for publishing serious literary fiction - he was skeptical and alarmed at the rest of the titles and synopses he read. The history titles were boring and mundane, the memoirs they'd commissioned seemed like whiny sob stories, and the music list . . . Mark frowned and flipped to it. The music list made no fucking sense, and Mark hated it when things didn't make sense. Part of the list was absolute publishing death: musicology, for god's sake, and theory, the kind of thing university presses should be dealing with, not commercial publishers. This press could sustain some of that, but certainly not as much as it had right now.

There were also some more promising titles on the sheet: something to do with race in popular music, a history of country music in Nashville, an analysis of hip-hop culture and consumerism. But after this dim ray of light, the list switched back to the obscure and the unpublishable. Who the _fuck_ thought an analysis of chord progressions in medieval chant music would interest more than two people in the entire world? Mark certainly didn't.

Breathe, he reminded himself, because he was getting angry all over again, and it wasn't fair to anyone to go into a meeting with one's mind already made up. The people who worked on the music list might have a perfectly good reason for its scattered, chaotic shape, and if they could defend their choices well . . . Well, Mark would _still_ make them change it, but he would at least be able to do so with respect instead of disdain.

The intercom buzzed. "Sir, I just wanted to remind you that you have a meeting with acquiring in five minutes," Mark's assistant said.

"Thank you," Mark told him, then got up from his chair, grabbed his notes, and headed down to the conference room.

~ *** 2*** ~

The news about the art department had definitely spread, Mark realized as he watched the acquisitions department straggle into the room and sit at strategically far-away places from him. They looked tense and unhappy, and several of them were anxiously riffling through stacks of notes.

Mark had no problem with that. He'd rather have prepared, frightened people than prepared, hostile people. It was a large acquisitions department, with divisions in fiction, history, creative nonfiction, music, and psychology, and Mark knew that to truly understand what was going on, he'd have to attend not only larger meetings such as this one but also their smaller subject-area ones. It would take forever, but he was prepared to do that, was prepared to do anything that would enable him to figure out what the fuck was rotten here at Phoenix Press.

Except for the chairs on either side of Mark, the conference room quickly filled up, and Mark decided to start the meeting two minutes before it had been scheduled. He liked for people to be in their places slightly early, and this was a failsafe to ensure that that would happen in the future. He looked calmly around the table and started his opening pitch.

"As many of you may know, I'm here to analyze the various components of this press and to restructure it so that it remains a viable, profitable company," he said, and held back his annoyance as he watched them wince. They all seemed upset when he called the press a company - but that was part of the problem: that was exactly the kind of thinking that needed to be abolished. They needed to be reminded that at the end of the day, this was a business.

"In so doing, I'm going to be attending a lot of your meetings, and I'm going to meet with each of the divisions in this department separately. It seems that in the past it's been an established practice for acquiring editors to launch a book and then forget about it. That's not going to happen anymore," he said in a serious, quiet voice, and watched hands fidget on the table, mouths twist anxiously. "From now on, I want all of you to be aware of what happens to the books you're bringing in from the very beginning to the very end. I want you to understand which of the titles you've acquired are selling and which aren't, and why - and I want you to use all of that information as you search for new books. In short, I'm looking for more accountability. I'm looking for all of you to show me why the books you're bringing in deserve to be here."

The room was stonily silent as Mark finished speaking, and he took a moment to look steadily at each person. "Any questions so far?"

More silence, except for a quiet shuffling at the door, the first late arrival. Mark looked up and took him in, and Jesus, Jesus fucking Christ, she was beautiful, all queenly and majestic, even with that uncomfortable, guilty look on her face. There was something vaguely familiar about her - something Mark couldn't quite place - but now was not the time to think about that.

Sometimes Mark called people out in meetings and sometimes he didn't. It wasn't always a good idea to put employees on the spot, though at times, it sent a powerful message. Mark looked again at the broad shoulders and long legs of the gorgeous late girl and decided that this was definitely the time to call someone out.

"Hello, Miss. . . ." he began, and watched the color on the young woman's face spread down her throat as her embarrassment increased exponentially.

"Jimenez," she said in a quiet, miserable voice. "Hayge Jimenez."

"Good morning, Miss Jimenez," Mark said. "I'm Mr. Salling, and I'm the one who scheduled this meeting. I'm so glad you could make it - I hope it wasn't interfering with your busy schedule."

"Sir, no. I -" Hayge Jimenez - god, she looked familiar, really, really familiar - said, and glanced frenziedly at the clock, which told her that she was not, in fact, late at all. Mark watched in fascination as she thought that through, watched her try to decide whether to defend herself or to take the badgering. That was a good sign - Mark liked people who considered things before they talked.

"I'm sorry, and I won't be late again," Jimenez finally said, and began looking anxiously around the room for a chair to sit in. Mark, who knew full well that the only open chairs were the ones beside him, said, "There's a seat right here, Ms. Jimenez. Please take it and stop holding us up."

The room was deadly silent as the young woman slowly moved to the chair next to Mark and sat down. She was beyond nervous: her hands were shaking a little, and she seemed deeply reluctant to make eye contact. Mark filed all of that away - she was probably junior here; she was young; she was sill learning the ropes - and then went back to running the meeting.

"All right. You've all prepared reports on your projected fall lists for me. What I'd like right now is for the head of each department to briefly summarize those lists. Let's start with fiction - and introduce yourself before you speak. Aside from Ms. Jimenez here, I don't yet know your names."

As Elise Martin talked about novels, Mark became increasingly convinced that he did know Hayge Jimenez. There was something about the hand she'd placed on the table, something about the curve of her neck as she turned to watch Elise, something about the profile - the soft, smooth jaw, the dark, curtain-like hair, and the way the glasses looked on those eyes particularly - that felt very, very familiar. Dammit - it was going to bother him until he figured it out. Mark tried to put Hayge out of his mind, to pay attention to the ongoing speech, but it was difficult; it was unnecessarily difficult and annoying.

"Thank you, Ms. Martin," he said calmly after she'd finished. "I'll be at your division meeting tomorrow morning. Right now, however, I'd like all the fiction editors to leave. I want to speak with the nonfiction people."

After the shuffling and nervous coughing had died down, Mark sat in front of a much smaller group of people and gazed steadily at them.

"I'm going to be very frank," he said in a grave tone of voice. "Your lists are a mess. Save for a few exceptions, your acquiring practices show little to no rhyme or reason, and absolutely no responsiveness to any sort of market analysis. Quite simply, all of you seem unaware of the current trends in both publishing and in your respective fields, and that is going to stop. Do you hear me?"

Horror-stricken faces, and some anger, too, which Mark actually wasn't too upset about in this context. If none of them tried to defend themselves he'd have even less respect for them. Next to him, Hayge Jimenez coughed once, then breathed deeply in and out, trying to calm herself. Mark held back a smile. Mr. Jimenez had better be worried - they all better had.

"Take, for example, the music list," he said, and was rewarded with a flurry of movement from Hayge, who in the space of ten seconds crossed and uncrossed her legs, rubbed the back of her neck, sat forward in her seat and then leaned back, and then finally let out a quiet sigh and rested her elbows on the table.

"I see some very promising titles here, books about rap music, about popular culture, analyses of the ways people engage with and listen to music, the way it works in their lives. That, people, is the kind of thing I like. And yet looking further down this list, I see, what - choral progression? The history of B-flat from 1856 to 1892?"

A few people chuckled at Mark's note of incredulity - but not Hayge Jimenez.

"Look. What I'm saying here is that there seems to be no plan. This is a chaotic, unorganized list: it's messy and ill-conceived, and I quite simply don't understand the thinking behind it."

"Well, um." More fidgeting from Hayge, and Mark sat back in his seat to watch. "Sir, I - if I could, I think I might be able to speak to that a little bit. Please don't think I'm rejecting your analysis outright, but there are some things I'd like to say about that list. The music list."

Mark nodded once. "So say them, Ms. Jimenez. Like I said, I'd absolutely love an explanation."

Oh, she was nervous, and her voice shook a little, and there was something almost . . . foreign in it, and -

And suddenly, Mark remembered that voice in another context entirely, remembered hearing it say, "God, Mark, please. Now," remembered Hayge all spread out and breathless and gorgeous on his bed, Hayge arching her back desperately up toward him, begging Mark to make love to her.

Mark shifted uneasily in his seat and pressed a hand to his chin, fighting for control, immediately resentful of Hayge Jimenez for coming in here and upsetting his equilibrium, for making a difficult meeting even more difficult, and for - well, for being one of the most satisfying one-night stands he'd ever had. It was amazing that he'd forgotten her, because god, she'd been incredible.

Flicking eyes over the curve of Hayge's shoulders, Mark very nearly sighed, and then sat up very straight, horrified at himself. This was so far from appropriate it wasn't even funny. He was the boss here - he was running this company, and it was most emphatically not his style to fraternize with employees in a romantic or sexual fashion. He was going to have to forget everything he knew about Hayge, was going to have to be as cool and as careful with him as he knew how.

Mark looked once more at Hayge, then carefully bit down on the inside of his lower lip. Great. Just great.

~ ~ ~ ~

Hayge's heart was pounding so hard she couldn't believe that the people she passed in the hall didn't notice. It was all he could do to keep his steps to their usual pace, to keep from sprinting down the long hall the way her adrenaline-charged body demanded.

She rounded the corner and risked a gCasey at her reflection as she passed the small decorative mirror over the flower arrangement in an alcove. She looked pretty normal - head up, shoulders back, calm, cool and collected. Except for the flush across her cheeks, she didn't look like she'd just had one of the most humiliating encounters in her entire life.

She passed the assistant she shared with two other editors with a neutral smile and waved off his attempt to hand her a message slip.

"But, Hayge . . ." David said, holding up a pink piece of paper.

"In just a second," she promised and lunged into her small office like it was a haven, swatting blindly at the door behind her. She threw herself into her chair and took a deep shuddering breath. Then she grabbed the phone and punched the number from memory.

"This is Casey James, how may I . . ." said the deep, smooth voice.

"It's me," Hayge interrupted urgently.

"Hayge?" Casey questioned, his formal manner falling away. "What's up?"

"I'll tell you what's up," Hayge said tightly. "Dude, you are not going to believe this. I just got out of this meeting . . ."

"Actually, Hayge, I'm just about to go _into_ a meeting, so this'll have to wait until after . . ."

"With Mark Salling," Hayge finished, and smiled with grim satisfaction as Casey went silent with a small choking sound.

"You're kidding," he breathed, and Hayge closed her eyes and shook her head, forgetting that Casey couldn't see her. "You're kidding, Hayge, oh my god. This is the new director, the one the parent corporation sent?"

"Yep," Hayge said bitterly. The misery of the last hour started to spread through her. She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes.

"Your new boss?" Casey asked incredulously.

"Yep," Hayge said again.

Casey was silent. "Jesus. What did he say to you?"

Hayge rolled her eyes. "Well, he looked at me and said 'Oh, hey, Hayge. I remember you from that morning last summer when I kicked your naked ass out of my bed at daybreak. I've been meaning to call you, how are you doing?'" She laughed a little, but it was hollow. "What the fuck do you think he said?"

"Oh my god." Casey's voice was rich with sympathy and Hayge resisted the urge to beat her forehead on her desk. "He didn't even remember you. Right?"

"Right," Hayge said quietly.

"Hayge, I told you that guy . . ."

"Yeah, yeah. You said he was an asshole and you know what? You were totally right, Casey. Mark Salling, my new fucking boss, is a huge fucking asshole." Hayge rubbed her hand over her forehead and closed her eyes.

"Ms. Jimenez," came a smooth voice from behind her, and Hayge whirled in her chair and froze.

Mark was standing in her open doorway, her _open doorway_, and behind her Hayge could see her own assistant, wide-eyed and still waving the pink message slip at her. The world slowed down and seemed to go oddly silent for a moment. In his ear Casey was saying something soothing but starting to laugh, and Hayge slowly replaced the receiver without looking at the telephone.

Mark stared at him, his eyes brilliantly brown and sharp as a razor. A small, humorless smile played over his full lips and Hayge took a deep breath and rose from her chair. Her face felt like it was on fire. She opened her mouth to say something, anything, but Mark's slightly lifted eyebrow stopped her.

"Next time," Mark said in a deceptively mild tone, "you might consider closing your door before you make personal phone calls." His eyes raked once down Hayge's form and Hayge trembled.

"My office. Ten minutes," Mark said. He moved a single step closer and lowered his voice. "You know the one: executive level, big office in the corner. The one that says 'fucking asshole' on the door." And then he was gone.

~ *~3 ~ *~

When Hayge presented herself at Mark's door it was exactly eleven minutes later. She'd shut his office door for real this time and done some deep breathing exercises, visited the restroom and composed herself as much as she possibly could. She'd been unforgivably careless, she told her reflection as she splashed cold water on her flushed cheeks. Unprofessional and disrespectful, and she owed Mark - Mr. Salling, he reminded herself - an apology. And, she told herself firmly, squashing the bitter voice that still whined about the way she'd been treated on that infamous morning-after, she completely deserved whatever crushing set-down that was about to be delivered.

Outwardly calm, Hayge faced Mark's closed door and raised her hand to knock.

"Are you looking for Mr. Salling?"

Hayge jumped a foot at the sound of the voice behind her, and she cursed herself. She didn't realize she'd been so tightly wound.

"I'm sorry," Mark's assistant said politely, his eyes mirthful. "I didn't mean to startle you. But Mr. Salling left for lunch. You just missed him," he added helpfully.

"Thank you," Hayge said, relieved that her voice came out normally. She hesitated for a moment - why had she been ordered to appear if Mark was planning on leaving? Was Hayge late? She checked her watch in a small panic, but it was only a couple of minutes past the designated meeting time. Her mind spun as she turned away from the corner office and made her way slowly back to her own. Maybe she was late, maybe her watch was slow, maybe Mark had decided he didn't want to talk to her, maybe Mark had intended for Hayge to go to lunch with him. She grimaced as she recalled the lack of humor in those icy brown eyes. That last option wasn't likely.

She returned to her office and checked her voice mail. A cautious call from Casey, hoping that Hayge hadn't hung up on him for the reason he was afraid she had. An automated reminder from his dentist's office about her appointment on Friday. Nothing from Mark.

Tension clutched her stomach as she turned to her computer and checked her email. Nothing. She jumped up and poked her head out the door to speak to David, but there were no messages waiting for her there either. Hayge carefully and deliberately closed her door and sank into her chair, staring unseeingly out the window. Her nerves jittered and she fidgeted uncomfortably.

For the rest of the afternoon Hayge alternated between chewing her fingernails and traveling the halls between her office and Mark's, waiting for his return. She wished she'd insisted on apologizing immediately for the remark when Mark had still been in her office. She wished she'd been two minutes earlier to her command performance with Mark. She wished this confrontation were already over with.

The light gradually grew dim outside as Hayge waited and fretted and got no work done whatsoever. Casey called again and offered to meet her for dinner; Hayge said no, she had to wait until Mark returned before she could leave. Her assistant said goodnight and went home. Hayge stared out the window. Rynan appeared in her doorway and asked her why she was still there. When she told him she was supposed to meet with Mr. Salling Rynan rolled his eyes and wished him a heartfelt good luck before beating a hasty retreat. Machines were turned off, the telephones stopped ringing. The halls emptied out and grew dark and silent.

At 7:30 Hayge made a final trip to the corner office on the top floor, striding slowly through the darkened hallways. Mark certainly would not be returning to the office this late; Hayge would have to come in first thing in the morning and talk to him then. She thought about leaving a note and cursed herself for not sending Mark an email as soon as she discovered he'd left that afternoon. Could she leave a polite and professional apology in writing? Should she?

Hayge turned the last corner and her steps faltered - the door to Mark's office was open and the lights were on. He was there, and all of Hayge's hard-won composure drained away. She stopped dead, leaning for a moment against the wall. What on earth was she going to say?

Get this over with, she told himself viciously, and strode to the open doorway before she had time to think about it for another second.

Mark was seated at his big desk, making handwritten notes on a pad of paper as he spoke quietly into a cordless telephone headset. He caught Hayge's movement in the corner of his eye and looked up sharply, his eyes freezing Hayge into immobility as her hand was raised to tap at the open door. For a moment they stared hard at each other and Hayge felt herself flush.

Mark raised his chin and nodded unsmilingly, then jerked his eyes toward one of the chairs arranged in front of his desk, indicating to Hayge that she should be seated. Hayge crossed a huge expanse of carpeted floor and sank silently into the chair as Mark resumed making notes and speaking quietly into the headset. His eyes skated over Mark's face and his hands and his long narrow fingers, and he felt her body flush with heat. Hayge jerked her eyes away and stared at her own knees, forcing himself to be calm.

"That's good, and I'll expect them by the end of this week," Mark said with deceptive politeness, and wound up his telephone call. Hayge heard him pull the headset from his head, and it was an excruciatingly painful effort to drag her eyes from her knees and look up at a stony-faced Mark.

"I apologize for that remark you overheard," Hayge said simply. "It was unprofessional and careless, and I am really sorry that you heard it."

Mark's eyebrows went up, and he did not smile. "But not sorry that you said it, am I right?"

Hayge struggled with that for a moment, and shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

"I'm curious," Mark drawled, and Hayge suppressed a shiver at the sound of his voice, the low and quiet tone. "We've had one meeting here, Ms. Jimenez. Just one meeting. How is it that you've decided I'm a - now how did you put it? - a 'big fucking asshole' already?"

Hayge looked at him, startled. Mark really didn't remember her, she realized with a humiliation that made her want to writhe. He seemed to think that the comment he'd overheard Hayge make was about his plans for the press, or his presence there. But that was good, wasn't it? Hayge licked her lips as she formulated a reply.

"I don't think what you have planned for the press is necessarily bad," she said carefully. "I mean, it's been obvious - even in the relatively short amount of time that I've been here - that there need to be some changes." She squirmed in her seat and rubbed her sweating palms on her skirt. "I don't think that the changes you have in mind - or at least some of them - are necessarily a bad thing."

Mark regarded her steadily from across the huge expanse of his desk and Hayge lifted her chin defiantly. She would not be intimidated, she told herself fiercely.

"Nice," Mark murmured in a low voice, and Hayge bit the inside of her lip to keep from reacting. "That didn't address my question at all, but it was a very pretty and correct thing to say." He cocked his head and leaned back in his chair before continuing. "Let me respond in kind, and tell you that I'm pleased to know that I can count on someone in acquisitions. Even," and now he smiled the slightest bit, his eyes clear and cold, "someone as insubordinate and arrogant as yourself."

A protest rose swiftly but Hayge choked it down. Mark was just trying to provoke her, she cautioned herself. He was just trying to make her angry. She smoothed her expression with an effort and gave Mark a serene smile.

"So, are we even now?" she asked, and this time Mark did smile.

"I believe we are," he said, his voice mild in the silent room. His eyes returned to the papers on his desk, and Hayge took that as a dismissal. She rose to leave, taking one more look at Mark's face, the sharp slant of his cheekbones, the thick fringe of his obscenely long eyelashes.

Abruptly, Hayge felt angry. She'd spent a pathetic amount of time angsting about That Night With Mark. She'd relived the highs and lows a dozen times in the last few months, wondering what she'd done, or not done, to get herself so summarily dismissed the following morning. She'd developed a ridiculous habit of scanning the damn society pages, guiltily hoping for a glimpse of the man that still haunted her waking moments as well as her dreams. And now here they were, and the object of all these thoughts _didn't even remember her_. Resentment stirred violently in Hayge, and on impulse she turned back.

"I just want you to know," Hayge said quietly, caring little to none if this was gonna get her in trouble, "that I'm not going to tell anyone about our, um, previous encounter. In fact, until today I'd almost forgotten about it myself," she added, inspired. "And I don't think it's something anyone else needs to know." She paused, aware of Mark's eyes fixed unblinkingly on her. "I'm sure you agree."

The room was utterly silent, and tension grew inside Hayge until she felt like she couldn't breathe. Mark stared at her with absolute inscrutability for what seemed like forever, examining her face and body while Hayge stood still and tried not to tremble. Finally he set his pen down and brought his eyes up to meet Hayge's. Hayge steeled herself.

"I find it incomprehensible," Mark said quietly, "that someone as smart and ambitious as you appear to be would be worried about an inconsequential one-night stand. Especially when you have so much work to do, and your job is at stake." He lifted one elegant eyebrow. "That'll be all, Hayge. Goodnight." He turned his attention back to the work on his desk, and Hayge fled. Again. This time she did feel a painfully insistent tug on her heart. 


	3. Chapter 3

Hayge relaxed into her chair and took a long drink of coffee, wincing in pleasure at the hot, bitter taste, and then started reading the e-mail messages that had arrived since she'd first checked at 7:30 in the morning. The early part of her day had been devoted to scanning the last of a huge pile of manuscripts that Rynan had given her - it had taken Hayge the better part of two weeks to go through them all, and she was quite pleased to have finally finished them off. At the end of her desk right now were three neat piles, evidence of her early morning's work. The largest consisted of rejections that she'd have her assistant contact the authors about, the second contained manuscripts for which Hayge herself would write the rejection letters, and the third and smallest was made up of those few projects Hayge was considering looking at more closely, the ones she really liked. Hayge loved this part of the process, loved the first surge of excitement and promise that worked its way through her as he realized that a project was going to be really good, that it had great potential. Later would come the nitty gritty of review and revision: at this point, there was only hope and possibility.

As she stared at her computer screen, a message from Astrid Biltingham came through, chiming merrily as it appeared in her mailbox. The subject line was "Revisions," and Hayge took a deep breath and froze a little bit as she opened it. Astrid Biltingham was an author she'd inherited from Rynan. As a musicology professor, she generally wrote the sort of books Rynan dealt with, but her latest manuscript was a study of Pretty Baby, a famous blues club in Chicago, a topic that had more trade potential than her other books. When Rynan had realized this, he'd handed the project over to Hayge. Pretty Baby had started as a speakeasy during Prohibition, then had survived to see a rich and colorful history that had included the Mob, murder, and the rise and fall of several noteworthy careers. Any book about it would be engaging, and there were many good qualities about Astrid Biltingham's manuscript. She had scrupulously charted the history of the club and the people who had performed in it and had placed the entire story in the larger context of the history of both Chicago and the blues.

But... what is this?

_Ms. Jimenez:_

_You have profoundly misunderstood the purpose of my book, and I find your suggestion that I "dumb it down" to be extremely insulting. Do you really think so little of your readers? I firmly reject your suggestion that I "collaborate" with someone who is most certainly far less knowledgeable than I am about the subject, and I insist that you accept my manuscript exactly the way it is. I spent years writing this book, and several of my colleagues have reviewed it: all of them think that it is perfectly fine the way it is, and so do I. If you do not cease with your demands to revise this book out of existence, I will withdraw the manuscript from Phoenix Press._

_Astrid Biltingham, PhD_

_"Jesus Christ," Hayge murmured under her breath, her heart pounding and her breathing coming in quick, short spurts. She'd had rude authors before, but this was one of the nastier letters she'd gotten, and certainly one of the most condescending. As she reread the e-mail, the fury hit: how dare she talk to her like that? How dare she so totally reject her own area of competence and expertise? Who was she to think she knew publishing better than Hayge did?_

Hayge took another swig of coffee and then quickly closed the e-mail, planning to respond to it later when she was calmer, but the anger and anxiety curled up and took residence in her stomach, refusing to go away. If she lost this book, she'd be in serious trouble. If he alienated one of Rynan's best authors, Rynan would never forgive her. One way or another, she had to address this, and fast.

As Hayge started planning out the conversation she'd have with Rynan, scratching out a few notes and trying to figure out the best way to present the situation to him, she became aware of movement at her door and slowly raised her head.

There stood Mark Salling, clad in power black and looking none too happily at her.

"Good morning," Hayge said uncertainly. This was the first time she'd been alone with Mark since the evening she'd stupidly, stupidly brought up their encounter the previous summer. Since then Mark had treated her with the same polite and remote precision he'd treated the rest of the press. Hayge didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed about that.

"We need to talk." Mark's voice was flat and cold, and Hayge felt herself tense as she entered the office, shutting the door behind her and taking a seat in the chair before Hayge's desk. For a moment, Mark was silent as he looked cursorily around the office, eyes rapidly scanning the walls and the shelves before coming to land on the piles of manuscripts at the end of Hayge's desk. It made Hayge very uneasy.

"What's this?" Mark asked, his eyes narrowing a bit.

"The department had something of a backlog," Hayge said immediately, trying to keep her voice calm and level. "This is the last of it."

Mark leaned forward, picked up a manuscript from the reject pile, and scanned the title page. "This is date-stamped three months ago."

It was getting rather hard to breathe. "I know, but it's taken care of now." There was no way in hell Hayge was going to say, "I know, but these sat in Rynan's office for weeks before I even knew about them," but it irked him that Mark was now going to think that she wasn't on the ball.

"Do these authors even know that we have their manuscripts?"

"Yes. We send an acknowledgment card when they first arrive," Hayge said, and held back a sigh. "It's just - there's always a glut of things at the new year. People finish up their books over the Christmas holidays, then send them on in."

"I'm sure that's true, but this date says November," Mark doggedly pointed out, and then shook his head, put the manuscript back, and relaxed into his chair again. "That's not what I'm here to talk to you about, though if this kind of lateness is common practice in your department, we really do need to address it."

"It's not - it's really not," Hayge said far too earnestly, and then winced inside as Mark raised an eyebrow in polite disbelief. This was turning out to be a horrible day.

Mark looked at her, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "All right, then. Tell me why I came to work to find a voice mail message from Astrid Biltingham threatening to withdraw her book from this press."

Hayge took a deep breath, amazed at how much rudeness and unpleasantness could come from a single author, then tried to remember that she was protecting her book because she cared deeply about it, not because she was an awful human being. It was hard, though.

"Okay. Look. I took her over from Rynan because her new book is tradey, but she's just not a trade author, you know? She's had all this success as an academic, and I think she's gotten used to not having to rewrite her stuff. But if we're going to be able to sell this book, then we have to get it rewritten in a more accessible fashion. So that's - that's what I suggested to her."

Mark crossed his arms and reclined slightly. "You suggested that she rewrite?"

Hayge felt herself start to flush a little even though Mark had spoken mildly. "Well, no, not exactly. I suggested that she work with a developmental editor, because frankly, I'm not sure she's even capable of rewriting."

"Did you at least give her the option of doing it herself?" Mark's eyes were growing sharp now, and he'd lifted one hand to rub impatiently at his jaw, a sure sign of frustration. Hayge's palms started to sweat.

"No, because I didn't think -"

Mark held up a hand to stop her. "One of the press's most distinguished authors, and you suggested a ghostwriter?"

Hayge knew she was red-faced now, and she knew her voice was going to shake when she spoke. "A developmental editor, not a ghostwriter."

"She's not going to hear that, Hayge. She's not going to make that distinction."

Hayge frowned. Mark was probably right. "Really, it seemed the best thing to do at the time," she said weakly, embarrassed at the almost wheedling sound in her voice. "Most of my authors are just fine with that."

"And yet as you said before, she's not one of your authors."

Hayge sighed. "Okay," she said miserably. "Okay, yeah. I blew that."

Mark leaned forward in his chair, speaking coolly and quickly. "Yes you did, and now I need you to fix it. This press can't afford to alienate her right now, particularly since we offered her such a ridiculously high advance."

Hayge frowned in puzzlement. "But our contracts state that if the publisher and author mutually agree to terminate publication, the author returns the advance."

"Not this one," Mark said, and Hayge's eyes widened in surprise. "For reasons I'm not even going to try to understand, we seem to have let her cross out that clause."

Hayge coughed uncomfortably. She knew full well that Rynan had negotiated that contract - did Mark know it too?

"So you see the dilemma I'm in here," Mark said, fixing Hayge with an intense, uncompromising gaze.

"I'm sorry - I -"

Mark stood up, neatly straightening his jacket and heading toward the door. "Don't apologize - just fix it."

"I - I will," Hayge said as humiliation flooded her.

Mark lightly rested a hand on the doorknob, then looked Hayge straight in the eye. "I'll call her back and tell her she'll be hearing from you soon. I'm not going to let her refuse to revise, because that's asinine and I have a feeling that your assessment of the writing is probably correct, but I am going to let her know you'll be more accommodating with her from here on out."

"I - okay. Yes." At least Mark wasn't going to back her entirely. That was something.

"Good. Look - I understand that she's unpleasant, but I expect you to handle this in a professional fashion, and I expect you to do it soon. I don't want to have to hear from Professor Biltingham ever again, Hayge. Is that clear?"

"Yeah. I understand," Hayge said glumly. Mark nodded sharply at her, then left the office.

* * *

"Aw, man," Rynan said, grimacing and leaning so far back in his desk chair that Hayge feared he'd tip over. "I am so sorry, Hayge. I really didn't see that coming from her."

"I - there's no need to apologize," Hayge said, resisting the urge to add "just fix it" like Mark had done to her. "But if you could maybe help me figure out a way to address this with her, that'd be great."

Rynan scanned the e-mail again, shaking his head in amazement. "Really, I've never seen her act like this. And you say she called Salling, too?"

"Yeah." It was impossible to hide the glumness in her voice. "I'm really sorry about this, really hope I haven't lost your author for you."

Rynan planted his chair on the ground again, then spoke slowly and seriously. "I've known Astrid for a long time. She's a good writer and a smart academic, but I'm not going to let her push you around on this, Hayge. She wants to write a trade book, she's going to have to make some compromises. She might feel comfortable snapping at you because you're new, but I'm not going to let her get away with that. If she's going to work with this press, then she's going to treat the staff with respect."

Rynan really was a good boss. "Thanks, Rynan. That means a lot."

"Yeah," Rynan said absently, and began flipping through his Rolodex.

"Banner, Blondel, Bickhammer . . . Biltingham, Astrid. Yes." Immediately, Rynan turned away from Hayge and dialed the number.

"Astrid? Hey, it's Rynan over at Phoenix. How are you?"

Hayge had to smirk as that question was followed by a very long pause. Apparently Astrid had given Rynan an earful.

"Yeah, I know, I know, we've maybe not been communicating as well as we'd like, but Astrid, I want you to know just how excited we are about this book, and how many high hopes we have for it," Rynan said. "Really, we're thrilled to have it."

Another long pause, and Hayge bit her lip.

"Hey, know what?" Rynan finally broke in. "I'd love to talk to you in person about this, and so would Hayge. With the three of us together, I'm sure we can come up with a reasonable approach to this situation, don't you?"

Rynan swiveled around in his chair and gave Hayge a thumbs up signal. "Great, great. Um, well, how about lunch tomorrow? Would that work for you?"

By the time Rynan hung up, he and Hayge had a lunch date at an upscale Japanese restaurant for the very next day.

"Rynan, thank you so much. Really," Hayge said, reaching out to shake his hand.

"What good am I as a boss if I don't help you out every now and then?" Rynan said, grinning, obviously enjoying himself and the drama of the situation. "We'll go in there tomorrow, fix this thing right up, and then you can go back to Salling and tell him that everything's okay. Like I said, Hayge, if we work together, then things will turn out for the best."

"Yeah, that's probably true."

~ *~ 3~* ~

Hayge and Rynan arrived at the restaurant before Astrid Biltingham did, which allowed them a little bit of time to strategize beforehand.

"Since I know her, it'd probably be best for me to do most of the talking at first," Rynan said in a low voice, and scowled at the menu. "God, I hate this place, but it's one of her favorites, so I figured we'd be pretty well off here."

Hayge looked at the spare, ascetic design of the restaurant - the clean, sharp lines, the dim, indirect lighting - and had to smile a little. It absolutely wasn't Rynan's kind of place.

He and Rynan were served green tea and handed menus, and Hayge only just kept herself from whistling under her breath as she saw the prices. It would probably be a good idea to confirm who was picking up the tab.

"Um, Joe - the press gets this, right?"

Rynan snorted and nodded. "Are you kidding? There's no way I'd pay for this shit on my own."

Hayge grinned at him, then sat back to wait for Astrid to arrive, fighting the urge to pull out the index card of talking points she'd prepared for herself before leaving the office. Rynan had laughed at her outright when she'd studied it in the cab on the way to the restaurant, but Hayge was glad she'd written it, glad she'd sat down to compile her thoughts. It was almost a good luck charm of sorts, and this was not a meeting she could afford to blow. She thought back to Mark's firm words in his office yesterday and only just suppressed a shudder. It would do absolutely no good to think about Mark right now, she realized, and then turned slightly to start up a conversation with Rynan about something.

But Rynan was already rising to his feet, a warm, welcoming smile on his face, his eyes fixed on a tiny woman in a long fur coat who was wearing almost frighteningly high-heeled boots.

"Astrid!" Rynan said happily, and lunged forward a bit to envelop her in a hug. In return, she tilted her head back, laughed, and kissed him on each cheek.

"It's fabulous to see you, darling," Astrid said, and Hayge stood up as well, nervousness mounting in her as she noticed the very expensive leather bag she carried, the smooth, sleek shine of her perfectly bobbed jet black hair, the large, dark sunglasses she had on. This was obviously someone to be reckoned with.

"This is my colleague Hayge, one of Phoenix Press's most talented new editors." Rynan beamed back and forth between Astrid and Hayge, for all the world seeming completely unaware that any tension had ever existed between these two people. "Astrid Biltingham, meet Hayge Jimenez."

Hayge gave her her warmest, friendliest smile and extended a hand. The glasses Astrid was wearing prevented her from reading her eyes, but she did curl her dark red lips into something resembling a smile and briefly placed her gloved hand in Hayge's before moving to a chair. Immediately Rynan was behind her, helping her to remove the coat - it must've cost thousands, Hayge thought, partly in amazement and partly in disgust - and then handing it off to a waiter before gallantly pulling out her chair and helping her to be seated.

The lunch started out with a string of small talk between Astrid and Rynan that Hayge could only just barely follow: gossip about musicians, about various musical performances they'd both seen, amused, barbed comments about the most recent shows that had opened on Broadway. As she watched Rynan, Hayge felt a new respect for him. Rynan possessed an entire world of knowledge that no one else at Phoenix Press knew anything about, and yet he never once bragged about it, never once tried to draw attention to himself or lord it over others. He was obviously capable of being sophisticated and urbane but seemed to content himself at work with being a loveable, slightly rumpled mascot. It was fascinating, and it made no sense. Hayge wanted to watch him forever.

But after the three of them had ordered, Rynan deftly moved the conversation into more difficult waters, and Hayge quickly went on guard.

"Astrid, we're just so sorry about the misunderstanding regarding your manuscript," Rynan said. "When I read it, my very first thought was that we had such potential here, a real opportunity to create something that would reach a large audience. And quite frankly, I still believe that - I believe it with everything in my heart. This is going to be a very big book, Astrid, very, very important. And if we handle it right - well, quite frankly, I'm thinking we've probably got a candidate for the National Book Award."

"Oh, Rynan!" Astrid exclaimed, shaking her head, but she also looked flattered.

"And what I do when I get books like that is hand them over to Hayge here," Rynan continued, nodding and smiling in Hayge's direction. "And the reason for that, quite simply, is that no one, and I really do mean no one, at the press is better than Hayge is at bringing in books that sell. She's got . . . something - I can't even define it, but it's just an incredible skill, one I certainly don't have - that allows her to feel the publishing market in a way few other editors can. So, in giving your book to her, I was as convinced as I could be that she'd do the right thing for it."

"Hmm," Astrid said, and took off her glasses, revealing striking ice-blue eyes that cut right through Hayge. "I suppose that makes sense."

"What I'd like for you to do, Astrid, is give Hayge another chance," Rynan said, his tone so persuasive and coaxing that Hayge didn't see how anyone could reject him. "I know, I know - there's been a go-round about the prose, but I just -"

Here he broke off and looked intently into Astrid's eyes before continuing in a warm, almost intimate tone of voice. "I just want you to help us make this book into the huge success it deserves to be, all right?"

Hayge took a deep breath and tried to see her talking points in her mind, and then cautiously said, "I'm very sorry if my suggestion about developmental editing seemed to be a criticism of your prose, Professor Biltingham. That absolutely was not my intent."

"Astrid," the professor said somewhat primly, and Rynan smiled encouragingly at Hayge.

"What I'd really like for us to do, Astrid, is come up with a way to get a rewrite we're both happy with," Hayge ventured, moving on to point two. "And if a developmental editor isn't the way you'd like to do that, then I'd love - I'd really love to work with you myself on that. I'd love to talk about the press's goals for the book, and about the kind of audience I see it having for us. Would you . . . would that at all interest you?" Hayge finished up with one of her most devastating smiles and hoped desperately that she'd go for it.

"Oh, Rynan, I don't want to! I don't want to redo everything!" Astrid exclaimed in an almost petulant voice, and Hayge stared in astonishment as she watched her sophisticated facade crumble. She sounded almost like a little girl now, and it was more than a little disturbing.

"I know, I know," Rynan said, his voice as sympathetic and kind as Hayge had ever heard it. "But this is a good thing, a very good thing, and Hayge will take good care of you - really, she will. Won't you, Hayge?"

Hayge licked her lips, uncertain. "Absolutely," she said in her most earnest, sincere voice. "I promise you, Astrid."

Astrid straightened up in her chair and recovered a bit. "I was serious, young lady, when I told you I didn't want to lose the focus of my book."

Hayge stared at her napkin for a moment, then took a risk and moved on to point three. "And I was serious when I told you that we need more from those great interviews you found. There's so much there that you can use to show the excitement of that era. We can bring the book alive, Astrid."

She lowered her head for a moment, thinking.

"And this . . . developmental editor," she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "She's worked with other of your authors?"

"Absolutely," Hayge said, and proceeded to give her a few choice names that made her eyes widen.

"So she must be good."

"She's very good," Hayge said with all the assurance in the world even though she'd never met her. "If you like, we could set up a meeting with her, just the three of us, and talk about some of the things we might do with the manuscript."

"I think that's a great idea!" Rynan was so enthusiastic it was almost embarrassing, but it seemed to work on Astrid, who ducked her head a bit, thought for a moment, and then regally told Hayge, "Set it up and we'll see how things go."

"Thank you, Astrid," Hayge said, and felt the weight of the world slowly lifting from her shoulders as relief spread through her.

"So, we can forget all this nonsense about severing contracts?" Rynan congenially asked Astrid. "I'd really, really hate to lose you."

"Phoenix Press has always been good to me," Astrid said, and gave Rynan the first real smile Hayge had seen from her since she walked into the restaurant. "And the reason for that is you, Rynan. And so if you're telling me that Hayge's going to help me with this book, then I'm definitely going to stay with you, definitely going to see where this thing goes."

"It'll be an exciting ride, I promise you," Hayge said absolutely honestly, and then caught Rynan's eye and tried to smile her thanks.

* * *

The cab door closed behind them, and Hayge slumped against the seat and heaved a huge sigh of relief. She felt like she hadn't drawn a full breath in the last day and a half.

"Nicely, nicely done, Hayge," Rynan said with satisfaction, and when Hayge glanced over Rynan was beaming at her.

"Me?" Hayge asked incredulously. "Rynan, honestly. I wouldn't have gotten anywhere with that woman. I'm amazed at the way you handled her. What a . . ." she censored herself at the last minute, "Uh, what a challenging sort of person she is."

"She's an arrogant, condescending, snotfuck academic," Rynan agreed cheerfully, surprising Hayge into a snort of laughter. "But she has reason to be - I mean, I know she was awful to you, but she does write good musicology books, and she's worth cultivating." He turned his grin back to Hayge. "And I think now that she's met you, she likes you."

Hayge rolled her eyes. "I think she'll put up with me because of you," Hayge corrected, and her own grin split her face. "And I'm so incredibly relieved, Rynan. The email, and then Mark showing up in my office - I was kind of freaking out. If you hadn't stepped in, I don't know what I would've done. Thank you so, so much."

"Oh, hey, it was nothing, Hayge. You're the one who did all the work," Rynan said serenely. "Do you want to take the news to that Salling asshole when we get back? Or is he even around today?"

"Yes. Yes he is," Hayge said immediately, and then cleared her throat and feigned interest in something outside her window as she fought back a blush. It wasn't that she was paying such close attention - Mark's movements in and around the press were a matter of common knowledge. It was pure chance that Hayge had happened to see him earlier in the day, conducting a meeting in the conference room on the executive level. Hayge had gone upstairs to see if their kitchen had any Diet Pepsi - it wasn't like he'd made a special trip or anything, she reminded herself. He'd just happened to notice the meeting, and the fact that Mark had been wearing a very, very handsome and perfectly fitted suit, but not one of the devastating custom Italian suits that usually meant he had meetings outside the press.

"Well, you should take Mr. Moneybags the good news when we get back," Rynan said generously.

Hayge chewed her lip. "Oh, no, Rynan I think it would be better - more appropriate - for you to do that," Hayge began almost desperately, but Rynan shook his head with a smile as the cab slowed and pulled to the curb in front of their building.

"Naw, I'm sure he'd rather hear it from someone else," Rynan said wryly. "He and I - well, I really haven't figured out how to communicate with that guy yet. Besides, you're the one who had all the stress and drama, and had to do all the work. You should be the one to collect the congratulations," he said as they started into the building. "That is, if that asshole sees fit to hand any out."

* * *

It was really ridiculous to have such a huge office with so little in it, Hayge thought with that odd mixture of fascination and resentment that she always felt when he had to deal with Mark. Mark's assistant had been on the phone but he'd smiled and nodded that Hayge could go right in, and now she was hesitating in the doorway, facing Mark across what seemed like half a mile of pristine, white carpet. The previous director had had this office absolutely crammed with huge, heavy pieces of furniture and bookcases; it had seemed cluttered and dark but it had also been welcoming.

Now it looked - well, different. Not necessarily better or worse, just very different. With all the blinds open the room was almost too bright, even though the day was cloudy and gray. The furniture was all clean, polished glass and light-colored metal, and everything about it, including the man who sat behind the desk, looked sleek, efficient and very, very rich.

Hayge cleared his throat and tapped politely on the open door, and Mark impatiently motioned her in. He looked tense and focused, his brows drawn together over sharp brown eyes, his voice clipped and terse as he spoke into his cordless headset. The top of the desk was scattered with complicated and official-looking papers. Mark looked very busy and very important, and Hayge coming in to toot her own horn over the saving of a single grumpy author suddenly seemed like the height of frivolity.

But it was too late to make an escape now; Mark had pulled the headset from his head and fixed Hayge with a remote and politely inquiring look as he scraped his free hand through his loose curls. Hayge blinked hard and forced herself to speak.

"Yes, so, Rynan and I had lunch with Astrid Biltingham about her manuscript . . ." and in as concise and succinct a fashion as possible, Hayge relayed the events of the afternoon to an inscrutable Mark. She faltered once when she made the mistake of making direct eye contact - the caramel light in Mark's eyes, the intent way he focused on Hayge while she spoke flustered her so much that she completely lost track of what she was saying, and she pulled his eyes desperately away before she trailed off into complete incoherency. Hayge stared past Mark's left shoulder and zoomed in on a small spot on the otherwise clean window while she finished what she had to say.

There was a brief silence. "Okay," Mark said slowly. "If I understand you correctly, you're telling me that she's agreed to work with your developmental editor, and you have confidence that the finished product will meet our requirements for publishing."

"Yes," Hayge said steadily. Was that spot on the window on the inside or the outside? Could glass that thick actually chip? Mark still seemed to be examining her closely; Hayge felt her heartbeat steadily accelerate and her hands begin to sweat. She sank her teeth into the inside of her lip and forced herself to concentrate. What a _girl._

"Well then," Mark said with a deceptive mildness that made Hayge tense. "I'm glad that this situation has been taken care of. And if it turns out the way you say it will, then the outrageous lunch expense voucher I just received notice of will be worth it."

"Oh, yes, that sushi place," Hayge said a little hoarsely, and cleared her throat. Again. "I'm sorry about that - Rynan knew that it was her favorite place, and he thought taking her there might help soften her up."

"Hmm," Mark said non-committally, standing up to face Hayge across the desk and blocking her view of the spot on the window. He turned to look curiously over his shoulder at whatever Hayge was staring at, and Hayge looked away, fast. "Was there anything else?"

Hayge was already backing up, heading for the doorway that loomed like a refuge in this pressure-cooker of an office. "No," she said with relief. "Not at all. Unless there's anything else you want to know?"

Mark watched him closely, those full, soft lips curving just the slightest amount as he watched Hayge slide toward the exit. "Not right now," he said quietly. "But don't worry. When I do, you'll be the first to know."


	4. Chapter 4

The morning sun was obscenely bright as it beamed into Hayge's small bedroom, and she whimpered pitifully as she burrowed under her covers. At first it seemed that her entire body was in agony; as she slowly awoke she realized that the pain was localized to a ferocious pounding in her head and a queasiness in her stomach. Even the slightest movement caused considerable torment and threatening illness. Hayge moaned again, helplessly, and tried to go back to sleep.

And of course she couldn't, even with the mother of all hangovers making her wish she was dead. Slowly, sluggishly, her body began to make its demands. She needed to use the bathroom, she needed to get some water and aspirin in her and she needed - sweet Jesus, she needed to hurl. Now.

Half an hour later Hayge shuffled unsteadily to her kitchen and filled her largest glass with watered-down 7-up. She sat down on her couch and squinted in misery at her cheerful and bright living room. The pain in her head had, if anything, gotten worse. Her brain felt woozy and stuffed with cotton; she couldn't form a coherent thought to save her life. Thank god it was Sunday.

Not that she didn't have to work, she thought with some dismay as she eased herself down on the couch and waited tensely for the room to stop spinning. She'd intended to spend some quality time preparing for the nonfiction editorial meeting on Monday morning, but if she didn't start feeling better, and soon, that was going to be impossible.

She'd thought she'd get her preparation done yesterday, but Rynan had stopped by her office at the end of last week with a casual invitation to his house on Saturday. "It's just a little thing for my birthday," Rynan had explained with a grin. "I'm not really into mixing business with my personal life, but I'd like to have you meet my family."

Hayge had similar feelings about keeping her personal life private and separate from her professional life, but she honestly liked Rynan, who'd already taught her so much and had never been anything but kind to her. And she hadn't told Rynan this, but her own birthday preceeded Rynan's by just a few days, and with Casey out of town Hayge had been feeling a little sorry for herself, and lonely enough to accept.

So early on Saturday afternoon she'd closed her laptop and straightened her files and made her way out to Brooklyn, where Rynan lived in a big house with her wife. Once there she'd frowned at Rynan's directions in confusion - there was no possible way that the huge party spilling out of the house and onto the steps and sidewalk, despite the freezing weather, could be termed "a little thing."

She'd found Rynan in the very thick of a huge group in the living room, where he'd been welcomed like a long-lost and desperately missed friend. Rynan had slung a careful arm around her neck and taken her through the expanse of the house, each room overflowing with laughing, chattering people of all ages. She was introduced as "my good friend Hayge, we work together," and her hand was shaken, her shoulder tapped, and her cheek kissed by a simply staggering number of friendly people. She'd met Rynan's wife, a tall woman with bright, laughing eyes who'd "heard so many wonderful things!" about her. Rynan's brother had greeted her like family and handed her a crystal glass of dark, sweet liquid that she was made to understand was some sort of secret and revered family recipe for banana-fig Grappa.

And it had possibly been some sort of magic glass, Hayge thought ruefully, because it never, ever seemed to empty.

But oh, she'd had such a good time. Music had been playing in the living room, almost drowned out by the noise of dozens of different conversations. The dining room had two long tables loaded with food, and there were three aluminum kegs of beer nestled in the snow just outside the back door. Children had dashed in and out of rooms, people laughed and talked and danced, and every one of them made Hayge feel welcome. By late afternoon she'd felt like she'd known these people forever. She hadn't been this happy in a long time.

Then darkness had fallen and Belle had come in bearing a gigantic cake blazing with candles. She'd been shocked to see "Happy Birthday to Rynan and Hayge!" written in two different colors of bright icing, and had looked across the room to see Rynan grinning happily at her.

"I snooped through your calendar!" he'd shouted in response to Hayge's expression of confusion and surprise. Everyone in the room started to sing Happy Birthday, and as Rynan had made his way over to her to wrap an affectionate arm around her shoulder, Hayge had been embarrassingly choked up at their kindness. If Rynan wasn't married, if he wasn't her boss, and if she met him in another life, Hayge would actually consider romantically getting involved him. And he didn't look bad. Not at all.

There had been toast after toast with the amazing Grappa. The music continued, with the stereo drowned out by people setting up actual instruments the corner of the living room. Three of Rynan's cousins had taught Hayge every Filipino drinking song they could remember. People with small children had simply put them to bed upstairs and rejoined the party, and it had been very, very late by the time Hayge located her coat and announced her intention to head home. It had been another two hours before she'd finally dragged herself away amid hugs and kisses and promises to visit again soon. The racial chemistry had never been this good.

The ride home had been a slow-motion horror movie ride in the back of a taxi driven by one of Rynan's many, many cousins. By the time Hayge had staggered into her building it had been the wee hours of the morning, and she could barely negotiate the stairs. It had taken her four tries just to get her apartment door unlocked.

Grappa, she thought darkly and suppressed a painful wince. It had been so delicious, rich and exotic, but in retrospect she thought it might have been the strongest alcohol she'd ever poured down her throat. And that said a lot because she never was the hard-drinking type. And she'd poured a whole bunch of it down her throat, she thought miserably. She was, quite simply, lucky to be alive today.

She finished her drink and set the glass down carefully on the living room table beside her laptop and work folders. She'd start preparing for that meeting soon, she thought as she laid back down and pulled the corner of her afghan over her throbbing eyes. Just as soon as she was certain that she was going to live.

Hayge didn't know how much time had gone by when her phone rang. It was a horrible, shrieking invasion, sharp and shrill and making her moan in agony. She needed Casey, she needed him right now. Where the hell was that bastard?

She grabbed the receiver just to make the noise stop, and grunted a pained "h'lo" in to the receiver as she collapsed back into the orange cushions.

"Hayge!" Rynan's voice was unbelievably cheerful, making a mockery of Hayge's anguish. "How are you today? Belle said I should give you a call and make sure you got home okay."

"Please," Hayge said feebly. "Please, Rynan. Stop shouting at me."

"What? Oh! Oh," Rynan said, and he was laughing, that ass. "Belle!" he shouted, making Hayge wince. "Belle! You were right! Hey," Rynan continued, still laughing and not bothering to lower his voice, even a little bit. "Belle said she saw you with some of Papa Joe's Grappa. Girl, you're lucky to be still standing."

"Yes. Except for the part where I'm totally not standing," Hayge said quietly, and Rynan stopped laughing, although he still sounded far too gleefully amused.

"Aww, Hayge. Someone should've warned you. That stuff is lethal unless you're raised on it." He started laughing again, and Hayge closed her eyes and cursed him.

Rynan was still laughing when Belle wrestled the telephone receiver from him. "Hayge?" she said, her voice sweet and kind. "Hayge, give me your address. I'll send something over that will help you out."

"I think it's too late for that," Hayge said forlornly, and Kelly made a sympathetic noise that did, in fact, comfort her greatly. At least it made her feel better enough to remember her manners and string together a thank you for the invitation, the party, the cake, and for making her feel welcome. She countered with another invitation to dinner: "just the four of us this time, and no Grappa, I promise," which she accepted with pleasure. She was so nice, Hayge marveled as she hung up her phone. How on earth had a nice woman like Belle gotten mixed up with Rynan's evil, Grappa-pushing family?

It wasn't an hour later that Hayge's intercom buzzed. It was another of Rynan's cousins, a man Hayge vaguely remembered meeting the previous day. They'd had a spirited discussion about pro-basketball and somewhere in the back of Hayge's mind she thought that perhaps she'd agreed to join some pick-up basketball league if she was taller, and a guy (because strange as it seemed, she loved basketball). Mario didn't stay long. He presented Hayge with a grocery bag, a huge grin, a sly joke about Grappa and its effect on wonder-bread Asian girls, and a tap on the shoulder that had almost knocked Hayge to the floor. Then he reminded Hayge about the basketball league before sketching a wave and jogging back down the stairs.

Inside the bag Hayge found a large container of still-warm, cooked pasta with a note that said "Eat with lemon juice - no sauce!" There were also two fresh lemons, and another container of chilled liquid that Hayge squinted at with alarm. It was sort of brown and sort of red, and had a greasy, congealed consistency that made her stomach churn in warning. The note on this said "Papa Joe's Grappa Cure - close eyes, hold nose and drink all before eating pasta."

Hayge found that she was smiling. It might look disgusting, Hayge thought ruefully as she set the containers out on her counter and fetched a plate, but she was desperate for something to relieve the misery of this hangover, and she had so much work to do today. Maybe it was one of those fabled, home-made miracle cures; at the very least, it was an incredibly kind gesture. Twenty-four hours ago she'd been a complete stranger to everyone except Rynan, and now they were sending her care packages.

Hayge opened the container and prepared to hold her nose. She was wary, but it seemed she was in the hands of true professionals here - and god knew nothing she ingested could make her feel worse than she already did. Rynan and his family might be evil, she thought with amusement, but they certainly knew how to make a stranger feel welcome.

* * *

On Monday morning Hayge walked into the conference room ten minutes early, settled into her seat, and reached for the stack of notes she'd been diligently working on since the weekend. The nonfiction division of the acquisitions department was about to meet to narrow down its contributions to the fall list, and after the talking-to Mark had given them about their lists in general, everyone was anxious and a little frazzled. Hayge had thought seriously and carefully about how she might present the several projects she had at varying stages of completion. She wanted desperately to make them sound fantastic and interesting to her colleagues, to do right by her authors and keep their books on the press's list. Hayge took in a deep breath and sighed. She had a feeling it wasn't going to be easy.

A few history people wandered in next, and Hayge nodded politely at each of them until Sarah Clark and confident and with her notes in a fancy colored folder, caught Hayge's eyes and smirked. Sarah Clark had been somewhat unpleasant to Hayge at meetings in the past, and so Hayge narrowed her eyes just a fraction before saying, "Hey, Sarah Clark." and then returning to her notes.

Just before 10:00, Tazeana Tan, who, as the senior acquisitions editor in the house, however young, would be leading the meeting, entered the room, her face drawn and tense. She'd no doubt been feeling even more pressure than the rest of them: Hayge had more than once in the past couple of weeks seen Mark moving in and out of her office, seen the two of them with their heads bent over what could only be early projections for the fall list.

"All right," Tazeana said, smiling wanly at them. "I wanted to let you all know that Mark is going to be sitting in on this meeting, so we'll begin as soon as he gets here."

Hayge glanced quickly at her colleagues, taking in raised eyebrows and expressions of disbelief, and then watched them disappear just as quickly as Mark entered the room.

"Tazeana," Mark cordially said, his head bent as he studied some notes, and then made his way to a chair across the table from Hayge. Hayge carefully looked down, wanting to seem completely preoccupied, but it was next to impossible not to notice how gracefully Mark sank into his chair, how elegant his hands were as he flipped through his notes, and how clean and sharp the scent of his cologne was.

Tazeana smiled and greeted Mark, but she looked fairly uncomfortable, and Hayge felt almost as bad for her as she did for herself.

"Would you like to say anything before we get started, Mark?" Tazeana diplomatically asked, and for a moment the room was filled with tension as Mark, who apparently hadn't heard her, took out what had to be a very, very expensive pen, uncapped it, then began emphatically crossing things out on the page before him. In alarm, Hayge strained to see what he was doing - what if that were the list? What if Mark were drawing lines right through the middle of Hayge's books? - but there was no way to do it without leaning halfway across the table, and she figured that Mark probably wouldn't like that.

"No, but thank you," Mark finally said in a calm, measured voice as he finished writing, and then raised his head to Tazeana and gave her a small, gracious smile. "The floor is yours."

"All right." Tazeana swallowed hard as Mark apparently ignored them all again, focusing once more on his notes, and then regained her composure. "What I'm looking for from you all is a sense of the way you see your individual lists taking shape, and I want you to highlight your most promising titles for the fall. So, who'd like to start?"

Whether or not Mark intended it, and Hayge was fairly certain that he did, Mark's presence was intimidating, and so instead of speaking up, everyone looked anxiously back and forth from him to Tazeana. Tazeana frowned in displeasure and waited it out.

Just as Hayge feared that the silence would become interminable, Mark shifted slightly in his chair and put his pen down. "Maybe we could start with the music department," he said lightly and Tazeana nodded, then looked around the table with a slight frown on her face.

"Uh, Hayge, Rynan's coming, right?" she said softly, and Hayge felt her heart sink as she watched Mark methodically scan the room, his mouth tightening in displeasure.

"He'll be here in just a minute." Hayge spoke with authority even though she had no idea whether that was correct, then very nearly sagged in relief as Rynan bustled into the room, his tie loosened and messy, his jacket rumpled, and his shirttails partly hanging out.

"Good morning, everyone," he said distractedly as he took a seat.

Mark leaned back in his chair and looked steadily in Rynan's direction, his eyes cool and unwelcoming. Hayge had never been so glad that she wasn't Rynan.

"Welcome, Rynan." Tazeana waited a moment for him to settle in his chair. "Why don't you start us off?"

"Yeah, um, great," Rynan said, and as Hayge watched Mark slowly raise his eyebrows in disbelief, Hayge also realized that Rynan had come completely unprepared - he had no paper with him and nothing to write with. And he apparently hadn't thought through what he was going to say, either, because a long silence ensued while he placidly regarded a spot on the wall behind Tazeana's head.

When Mark began to slowly run his fingertips back and forth over the edge of the table, Hayge could practically see the tension and annoyance slowly gathering in him. A vague sense of panic filled Hayge, and her mind worked almost manically. She had to fix this somehow, had to get rid of the uneasiness filling the room.

"Um, Rynan and I talked this over and it's actually - I'll be the one to speak for us on this."

The disapproval on Mark's face was now perfectly unconcealed as he lifted his head to look slowly from Rynan to Hayge to Tazeana.

"All right, then," Tazeana quickly said just as Mark opened his mouth. "Speak to us, Hayge."

Tamping down her own rising sense of annoyance and incredulity - what on earth was Rynan thinking? - Hayge took a deep breath and did Rynan's job for him, giving a general outline of the music department's fall list, speaking in broad terms about the interaction between trade books and more serious volumes, arguing that the popular books would in the end fund the more esoteric ones, and that the balance struck could only be helpful to the press. Judging from the small nod of approval Tazeana gave her, she thought she'd spoken convincingly and well, but when she looked across the table and caught the politely skeptical look on Mark's face, she wasn't quite so sure.

Tazeana glanced expectantly at Rynan, frowning when he shook his head at her, then looked almost apologetically back at Hayge. "Tell us which scholarly volumes your trade books are going to help fund, Hayge, and give us a sense of why that has to happen."

Hayge tried to catch Rynan's eye, but he was staring out the window. Sarah Clark was hardly able to contain herself, and she treated Hayge to a wide, malicious grin.

Fuck. "Well, as everyone here knows, Rynan can probably speak better to that," Hayge said, fervently hoping that Rynan would take the cue. There was no way she could talk about Rynan's books, and Rynan knew it.

Finally, Rynan came back from whatever zone he'd been in, looked around the table, and became once more the Rynan that Hayge knew and respected, speaking enthusiastically and eloquently about several manuscripts on, well, really arcane subjects, but the passion he spoke with more than redeemed him, Hayge thought.

When Rynan had finished, Mark bent his head and began writing in his notebook again, the entire room silent save for his quiet, decisive pen strokes. Hayge stared in uneasy fascination at Mark, deeply curious about what he was thinking, and then became entranced by the quick yet controlled movements of his pen, the perfect curve of his neck, from the base of the head down to the shoulder. She was so lost in contemplation that she did not think to lower her eyes when Mark put his pen down, or when he slowly looked up, so it was not until Mark's clear, inscrutable gaze meet her own that Hayge realized that she'd been caught staring. Abashed, she quickly looked away and pretended to be focusing on the meeting even as her cheeks began to redden.

" - price sheets for us, Rynan?" Tazeana was saying.

"I, uh - I don't have them with me just at the moment, but I can get them to you after the meeting." Rynan sounded a little uncomfortable.

"You didn't get my e-mail about bringing price sheets to the meeting?" Tazeana carefully asked, and Hayge knew at once that she was annoyed.

"Seriously, Taz, I meant to - it's just -" Rynan sighed almost theatrically. "It's been a hell of a morning."

"But Rynan, that e-mail went out -" Tazeana began, then stopped midsentence as Mark caught her eye.

"Would you mind if I said something, Tazeana?" he politely asked, and immediately all eyes in the room were on him.

"Absolutely not," Tazeana automatically replied. For a split second, Hayge wondered how she felt about having Mark take over her meeting, but when Mark began to speak, all other thoughts left her mind.

"You're probably getting tired of hearing me say this, but this press is running a huge deficit," Mark said in a low voice. "And when that happens to a company, it has to change its practices - either that, or it goes out of business. Now, I probably don't like change any more than the rest of you, but this is a fact we can't ignore: unless we change how we bring books into Phoenix Press, this business will fail." He looked slowly around the room, taking in one stricken face after another, and then continued in the same quiet, devastating tone.

"The best way acquisitions can help in this regard is by making sure that the books you're bringing in are going to break even - but without price sheets, we can't determine that." Mark was hardly looking at Rynan at all now, but Rynan was still red-faced and miserable.

"So from here on out, I'm going to make this mandatory: if you want to pitch a book to the rest of this press, you have to have price sheets done. Does everyone understand that?"

When several people nodded, Mark slowly eased back into his chair. "Thank you, Tazeana," he said, and then let silence descend on the room again.

The atmosphere in the room was so very deadly that for the second time in fifteen minutes, Hayge was compelled to speak, to act, to do anything in the world she could to cancel out the horrible feeling Mark had created.

"We do have numbers for some of our books, Taz," she said, carefully avoiding use of the word "my" and trying desperately not to flush as she felt Mark's eyes settle on her. "Would it be all right if I took us through those?"

"That would be lovely, Hayge," Tazeana said, her voice full of relief, and so Hayge took a deep breath and then began to present her own titles, talking first about a new series she was initiating on the influence of jazz music on popular music, then mentioning a few specific biographies and histories she wanted to pursue.

As Hayge handed out copies of the price sheets she'd made, Mark placed his on the table in front of him and then leaned back almost lazily, his elbow balanced perfectly on the arm of his chair, resting his chin in his hand. Hayge longed to look closely at him, to gauge his reaction, but there was no way to do it without being painfully obvious. And besides, Hayge had promised herself earlier that she was not going to let Mark Salling fluster her, was not going to act like an idiot in front of him yet again. Fortunately, she managed to keep it together, got through exactly what she wanted to say and then exhaled in relief.

Tazeana gave Hayge a small, supportive smile. "From a financial standpoint, it looks like all of these will be successful - well done, Hayge. Now, does anyone have any content-based questions?"

Hayge heard feet shuffling under the table and saw one or two people riffling through their notes, but no one spoke.

Tazeana waited for as long as she could, and then said, "I guess I'll take that as a no, so why don't we move on to-"

"Tazeana, I'm sorry, but may I interrupt again?" Mark asked, and Hayge anxiously gripped the arms of her chair. Was Mark going to ruin everything the music department tried to do today?

"Go right ahead," Tazeana said, perhaps a little less politely than she'd welcomed the first intrusion but still well within the bounds of etiquette.

"I realize that my presence could be inhibiting some of you, but I'm afraid you all seem a bit passive," Mark finished. "Is that typical for this meeting?"

Hayge stared hard at Mark and tried not to get angry.

"I don't think so, no," she quietly said, even though Tazeana was giving her a clear warning look, and then calmly added, "What do you think people should be asking me?" and struggled not to wince as Mark narrowed his eyes.

"Well, for one thing, I'd want to discuss the fact that some of the books you're talking about sound pretty familiar," Mark said in a low tone, "and I'd imagine further that someone might question the relevance of an entire series about jazz and popular culture when the more dominant and interesting musical influence at present seems to be hip hop music."

Hayge bit her lip and saw red. "I wouldn't exactly agree with that, Mark." Mark had told them that they could use his first name, and dammit if she wasn't going to do it before she lost her nerve. "It seems to me that jazz has influenced a lot of hip hop artists, particularly when it comes to things like improvisation and sampling, and I really - it'll be a good series. I've got lots of great proposals and lots of great authors and I feel very confident about it."

"Hm," Mark said, obviously unconvinced, but he didn't criticize again, either; he just lowered his head to his notes yet again.

"Any more questions for Hayge?" Tazeana asked, her voice now more than a little sympathetic.

Sarah Clark now leaned forward, opened her mouth, and then looked as if she thought better of it and heaved a huge sigh. Theatrics, all of it, and Hayge could not help but glare at her.

"Out with it, Sarah," Tazeana tiredly said, and Hayge clenched her jaw and waited.

"Well, I just think - well. Mark mentioned the repetitive nature of Hayge's list, and I guess - I guess I wanted to kind of weigh in on that too," Sarah Clark said. "To be honest, I really don't see the reason for the Mort Atcheson biography Hayge just pitched. The market's too crowded for yet another Phoenix Press book about bluegrass artists."

"I fail to see how this book in any substantive way repeats previous titles we've done," Hayge immediately replied. "Mort Atcheson was unique in several respects: he was the first to pioneer many techniques that producers still rely on today, in all genres of music, and the artists he cultivated were -"

"You know, I think part of this has to do with the fact that you're so new here, and part of it might be that you're just not familiar enough with our list yet." Sarah Clark's voice was infuriating, condescending, and Hayge felt a hard, angry pit form in the center of her stomach as she listened. "But this press has already published a biography of Atcheson - in 1998, I believe - and from what I recall, the sales on it were not all that stellar."

"Yes, I think I remember that. What about this other book?" Tazeana softly asked Hayge, and a sea of words flooded Hayge, a tangle of arguments and anger so hopelessly convoluted that she knew she'd never be able to get it out in coherent form. She'd known about the other biography - a copy of it was sitting on her desk right this moment, in fact - but somehow, the power to speak intelligently about it had left her.

"She's right - I mean, she's not right," Hayge blurted out, and had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from wincing as she saw Mark's mouth turn up in amusement. "What I mean to say is that this book is different, and in significant ways."

"Okay, that's good to hear." Tazeana looked almost kindly at her. "How?"

"Well, I - I mean, lots of ways," Hayge said, and then felt herself beginning to flush, felt herself losing it altogether in a rush of humiliation, and she knew that she was not going to be able to defend herself right now. "I - I could speak better to that at our next meeting," she finished miserably and watched a cold smile of triumph spread across Sarah Clark's face.

This time Mark spoke without asking for permission. "I'm sorry, Hayge, but if you can't defend the book off the top of your head, then there must not be a very compelling reason to keep it."

"I'm not - I just -" Finally, Hayge broke off, looking desperately at Tazeana, wordlessly begging her for help.

"Let's move on," she said, though not unkindly. "I want to hear what the history department's got for us."

As Sarah Clark droned on - horrible, boring stuff, and Hayge wasn't even going to give her the satisfaction of attempting to challenge her on it - Hayge sank deeper and deeper into her chair, her face heating up and her stomach churning as all the pieces of the argument she'd wanted to make earlier came unbidden to her head. She'd never choked like that in a meeting before, and it was made even worse by the fact that she'd been pushed aside so easily, that everyone had so quickly lost interest in her contribution. The feeling of dissatisfaction grew steadily, and apart from exchanging a few looks of disbelief with Rynan, Hayge was utterly unable to participate in the rest of the meeting. All she could do was think of the six million reasons why her biography of Atcheson was important, relevant, and necessary, even - yes, absolutely necessary for Phoenix Press. Before this day ended, she resolved, she was going to get up and make that case to Mark Salling in a calm, convincing fashion.

* * *

"Thank you, everyone," Tazeana said, her smile strained, and then signaled to all of them that they could leave the room.

Immediately, Mark gathered his notes and rose to his feet, his suit pristine and unwrinkled, his tie perfect, and then moved to the front of the room, sinking gracefully into a crouch and talking quietly to Tazeana.

Hayge stood up with the rest of the people in the conference room, then drew a long, deep breath - her first in what seemed like hours - and grimaced. In spite of the fresh flowers at either end of the room and the highly efficient air conditioning system, the conference room now smelled vaguely like a locker room. Too many tense and nervous people, she thought. Not enough air.

"Rynan and Hayge," Tazeana's voice was clearly unhappy, and she looked once at Mark, who was now standing up, as if for confirmation before continuing. "Stay a moment, please."

It wasn't a request. Hayge peered longingly through the windows lining the walls of the conference room as the rest of her colleagues filed silently down the hallway. She was starving, having had no idea that the meeting would go so late into the afternoon. She felt hollow and empty and she wanted out, out of this pressure cooker of a room, out of Mark's sight.

Rynan caught her eye and gave her a expression of concern, and for a split second, Hayge was deeply annoyed. If Rynan had been more prepared for this meeting, the two of them probably wouldn't be in this situation.

Against her will, Hayge's eyes cut toward Mark again, skimming over the dark, fuzzy hair, the sharp cheekbones, the smooth and full lips. He was so handsome, so fucking incredibly handsome in so many ways, but Hayge reminded herself that it was just a shell. Mark wasn't simply projecting a business-like and chilly facade - he wascold and calculating to the core.

For the millionth time since she'd first seen Mark at the press, Hayge pushed away the insidious memory of those warm and full lips on her own, drifting down her neck and chest, nibbling on her belly as Hayge had squirmed. As Mark lifted his hand to rub the back of his neck, Hayge determinedly squashed the memory of the way those fingers had skimmed over her body, making it hum with tension, stroking and soothing and then coaxing until Hayge's voice had been breathless with need, until she'd opened up and begged . . .

Mark glanced up suddenly and Hayge froze, hoping to god that she wasn't flushed, that nothing of what she'd been thinking was showing on her face. Mark's eyes were direct and hard: there was no softness there, no humor, nothing of the man who had taken Hayge to bed in a high rise Manhattan apartment one night and driven her wild.

And kicked her out at sunrise the next morning, Hayge reminded herself also for the millionth time. It would not do to forget that part.

Maybe that was good, Hayge reflected as the last people trickled out of the conference room and the heavy door closed behind them, leaving the room in utter silence. Another few meetings like this and she should be completely incapable of conjuring up any thought of Mark that didn't make her wince in discomfort or tremble with panic.

"Tazeana, if you don't mind, I'd like to do the talking here," Mark said, looking first at Rynan, then at Hayge, his eyes bright and sharp.

"By all means, go ahead," Tazeana said, and now she was the one refusing to make eye contact.

Mark looked hard at Rynan and Hayge, then spoke in a low, intense voice. "When you attend meetings at this press, I expect you to come on time and to come prepared. Do you understand me?"

"Uh, yeah, look. I'm really sorry about that," Rynan began. "I had to drop my niece off at daycare, and I -"

"I'm sure we're all very busy," Mark interrupted, and Hayge flushed with sympathy for Rynan. "But I need you to be prepared for meetings. Again, is that clear?"

"Crystal clear." Obviously embarrassed and angry, Rynan quietly added, "Will that be all?"

Mark nodded, then turned to Tazeana, wordlessly dismissing them. "I need to talk to you about the contract for the Alton book," he told her. "Do you have time this afternoon?"

As Tazeana and Mark murmured to each other, Rynan hurried out of the room, leaving Hayge standing there in confusion and looking at Mark and Tazeana.

Finally, Tazeana and Mark finished their conversation. Tazeana gave Hayge one more sympathetic look as she left as well, leaving Hayge and Mark alone in the silent room.

Mark raised his eyebrows and waited for Hayge to speak. "Yes?"

"Uh, look," Hayge finally said, her voice low and shaking a bit. "That - what you saw from Rynan today? That's not usually like him, all right? I just wanted you to know that."

Mark was silent for so long that Hayge almost shivered. "Your boss can speak for himself, Hayge."

"I know, but I just -" Hayge began, then broke off in distress. "He's a really great guy, really good for the press, and if you'll just be patient with him, I'm sure you'll see really soon that -"

Mark sighed and glanced at his watch, slowly starting to head for the door, toward Hayge. "Your job is to talk to me about your work, not about your colleagues, your feelings, or your impressions of various meetings. If I want your opinion on other matters, I'll ask you for it, but until then, I'm going to have to ask you not to bother me. Is that clear?"

Mark paused right in front of her, and Hayge wanted to die.

"Yes. Sorry," she got out, sniffing back an invisible tear. Wow that guy really was something. She'd be impressed if she wasn't busy begging the gods to strike a lightning bold her way and put her out of her misery.

Mark nodded and continued moving toward the door. "All right, that's all. Thank you."

"Wait, wait - I - there's something else I'd like to talk to you about." Hayge paused and took a deep breath, privately amazed at how steady her voice was, especially when Mark slowed down and turned around, eyes intent on her. "Something work-related. Uh, I'd like to go over that book of mine again, the Atcheson biography."

To Hayge's surprise, Mark actually smiled. "Why does that not surprise me?"

Hayge tried to look confident. "It's just - I hate that I didn't get to argue properly for it, and I really want the chance to try again."

"You should speak to Tazeana about that."

Hayge coughed. "I'll talk to her as well, but I think we both know that at this point, you're the person making the decisions around here."

Mark looked steadily at her. "Even supposing that's true, why should I give you this chance?"

Hayge spoke as quickly and convincingly as she could. "Because if you'd just listen to me, you'd see that this is going to be an important book, and that this press needs it, really needs it. And also - it isn't at all like that other biography. Sarah Clark, she really misrepresented that when she spoke."

"The time to have said that was when you had the floor, Hayge." Mark was headed for the door again, and Hayge clenched her jaw, then took a deep breath. If she let Mark walk out of this room right now, she would be killing her book.

"I couldn't do it then because I lost my train of thought," Hayge confessed, her face tinging red. "And that doesn't happen to me very often - believe me, you'll see that soon enough. But for the sake of this book - not for my pride, and not because of stupid rivalries - I want a chance to speak to you about it, because I seriously think it'll be good for this press. Very good."

Mark lifted an eyebrow and waited.

"So, uh. If you've got some time now, maybe," Hayge trailed off nervously.

"Right now, I'm going to lunch," Mark said.

"Do you think -" Hayge began, then stopped herself.

"If you want to ask me something, then do it," Mark said, and Hayge felt a wave of excitement and astonishment roll over her.

"Could we continue this discussion over lunch?" She'd said it as plainly and as firmly as she could, and Mark had better - he had better -

"Fine. Meet me in my office in ten minutes." Mark was now at the door, slowly pushing it open. "Oh, and one more thing," he added, pausing and looking back at him. "This will be your last chance to talk about this book, so you'd better be ready."

"I will be. I can be. You won't - okay," Hayge said to Mark's back, and lunged into action, grabbing her portfolio, scrabbling together her pens, her folders, her notes.

Lunch, Hayge thought as she headed to her office. Lunch with Mark. A working lunch, but lunch. Outside the office. Just the two of them. Her heart galloped in her chest and she ran a shaking hand over her head. She needed to splash water on her face, gather her thoughts, prepare for a one-on-one meeting, and find a way to compose herself. And she only had ten minutes.

* * *

"Okay," Hayge said as the waitress moved away from them, and then put the Mort Atcheson book Sarah Clark had been talking about on the table. "This is pretty much a standard biography. The author talked to all the right people, looked at all the right articles, and came up with a fairly conventional argument about Atcheson's life."

Hayge looked nervously at Mark, who at the very best was only halfway listening. He'd been distracted and impatient since they'd come in, checking phone messages and looking restlessly around the room, and Hayge was keenly aware that he was not keeping his attention in the way he needed to.

"Um." For a split second, Hayge struggled, on the verge of panic - she was boring Mark and she was going to blow this - but she overcame the weakness and then pushed on. This was an important book. She cared about this book. She was going to sell this book to Mark.

"But, see, the thing is, this author didn't have access to all the archival materials on Atcheson," she said, her voice low and steady, too low for Mark to hear without inclining his head and leaning across the table a little bit, which he did. "And he also - this guy's a historian, okay, and he writes like a historian - which, I don't mean to be disrespectful of the discipline or anything, but historians either have it or they don't when it comes to writing. And this guy doesn't - he just doesn't. Two of the reviews I looked up called this book informative but lackluster, and it's still not even close to selling out its first print run."

Mark nodded, then leaned back in his chair. He looked like he was about to say something sharp and devastating, so Hayge jumped right in again, determined at all costs to keep the floor.

"The book I've got is written by an English professor, someone who's loved bluegrass music all his life. And he's actually even played in a band for a while, so not only can he write, but his passion and understanding for the material really come through. He's able to sketch out this guy's life in a way that makes you really want to know what happens next. I swear, Mark - it's almost like a novel or something - it's that good."

Here, Hayge chanced a small smile at Mark, who slowly raised his eyebrows and quirked his mouth. Fuck, he was handsome; fuck he was hot, and if Hayge were reading this situation right, he was also starting to pay attention. Energized by the thought, Hayge widened her smile a bit.

"Go on," Mark said softly, and there was interest in her voice, as well as something rather less suitable, something Hayge really, really couldn't allow herself to think about right now. She looked down at the book in front of her to collect her thoughts, and then slowly, carefully, glanced at Mark before continuing the pitch.

"And my guy found new documents about Atcheson, did research in archives that the other author didn't know anything about. And so," she went on, her voice low again, as low as she could make it in a public place, because now Mark was sitting up a little more, Mark was leaning in a bit, Mark was looking even more intently at her, "we have a book that both offers new information and is well written, and I think it'll do really well for us. It's got any number of strengths the other one doesn't."

"I see." Mark reached over and picked up the book Hayge had been maligning, his hands sliding appreciatively over the jacket and the spine. Hayge bit her lower lip as she watched: Mark was holding it like a book lover would, taking pleasure in its weight, its heft, the thickness and texture of the pages. Maybe he understood publishing a little better than people were giving him credit for. Or maybe... Hayge was turning out to be a perverted sicko who could elaborately interpret any action from Mark as nothing but sexual. And that started to frighten her. Because... Hayge, she was the kind of girl who'd strike you as... formal and conservative, inside and out. But after meeting Mark, after meeting AND sleeping with Mark, Hayge was not so conversative, on the inside at least .

"So your book contributes to our knowledge of Atcheson and reads like a novel?" Mark asked, his voice deceptively light as he flipped through the book to the photo gallery, his fingers careful and sure on the pages, just like they'd been on - on -

"Yeah." Hayge roughly said, then forced herself to pick up a glass of water and take a long, cool drink. Mark knew a thing or two about seduction as well - she more than anyone should have remembered that. She had to get this thing back on a professional footing, had to regain control.

"I've done a full-blown financial analysis in addition to the price sheet," she said more briskly, bending over to retrieve the folder she'd carefully placed in her messenger bag right before the meeting and then offering it to Mark. "And it's viable - it's very much so. You'll note that the projected earnings for the first year will be -"

Mark didn't take the folder. "Will it break even?"

"It'll do even better than that, I think. I mean, if I'm right, this could maybe even -"

"If it's as important a book as you say it is, then I don't care if it makes us money - as long as it doesn't lose any. And your judgement is that it won't do that, right?" Mark spoke seriously and slowly, and Hayge swallowed hard. Mark was going to trust her on this. Mark was about to take her word for it.

"Yes," Hayge finally said. "That's what I think."

"Okay, then," Mark said, then put the other book back down and slid it across the table to Hayge.

"And it'll appeal to several audiences," Hayge continued. "I spoke to some people down in marketing, and they said they could sell it to history buffs and music fans, and that if we could, say, get a review in _Rolling Stone _or something, it'd have even wider appeal. And so -"

"Sounds good," Mark said, and then looked up and smiled, a brilliant, seductive, absolutely gorgeous smile, at the waitress as she sat a salad down in front of him. Hayge watched jealously as she flushed.

"We might even consider releasing it with a CD as well." Hayge nodded at the waitress as she gave her her salad, too, then once again became mesmerized by Mark's neat, elegant movements as he put a napkin in his lap and reached for his fork. "I know these tie-ins don't always work that well, but in this case, it'd be really cool to do that, because we could use the very same songs this guy is interpreting, and readers would really -"

"Hayge, I said okay," Mark quietly interrupted, and for a moment Hayge stared at him in shock.

"But I -"

"No, really - stop it," Mark said, and then smiled at her. "I'm convinced. Write me a report and put the manuscript on my desk tomorrow afternoon. If it's done well, I'll authorize you to move to the contract stage."

"Photographs," Hayge blurted out, unable to believe what she was hearing, unable to feel the triumph she should be feeling, unable to slow down and stop. "There are so many great photographs - the art department will have a ball with them, and -"

"I mean it, Hayge - no more," Mark said softly but seriously, and Hayge widened her eyes, sat carefully back in her chair as her heart began to pound.

"It's been a pleasure to see your . . . enthusiasm," Mark went on, and now he was - god. He was just flaunting it. "I think that's one of the things I appreciate most about you."

Hayge hoped that what he meant by "enthusiam" didn't project Hayge on his bed, sweating like a girl who'd just sprinted a mile and moaning "Yes, Mark, yes. Harder... Oh, God... Yes."

Hayge could do nothing but look deep into Mark's eyes and feel a shiver start to roll over her body, a slow, gradual wave of excitement. God, she needed help, fast.

"I'm not going to pretend that I don't enjoy seeing you work so hard, because I do." Mark smiled at her again. "But right now, I'd rather see you relax and eat your lunch."

"Yeah. I - yeah," Hayge softly answered, and Mark smiled slowly, wickedly at her, and it was unfair - it was beyond unfair, because what was Mark doing? How could he be so cold one minute, and so hot the next, and why was Hayge so eminently vulnerable to all of his moods? Her face carefully neutral, Hayge gripped the arms of her chair, waited until she was sure her hands weren't going to shake, and then slowly picked up her salad fork and started to eat.


	5. Chapter 5

By the time the lights went on, the machines started up and people began trickling into their offices it was almost 8:00 and Mark had been hard at work for more than two hours. It was going to be a very long day, a day that would include meetings with three different departments and careful review of two manuscripts he was determined to have ready for the fall list. In addition there was a lunch meeting involving a pitch from a company purporting to offer outside copyediting services for a significant cost savings, and a dinner meeting with a trio of businessmen regarding the parent corporation's latest European expansion that his grandfather was insisting he keep an eye on. He had to at least make an appearance at a cocktail party his mother was hosting before her favorite charity's annual silent auction. Then, he noted grimly as he scrolled through his appointment calendar, he had two other parties he'd promised to attend, one of them hosted by an old friend from Stanford that he'd been trying unsuccessfully to meet up with for the last six weeks. He sighed deeply. He'd be lucky to be home before dawn and even though the next day was Saturday he would have to get up and do it all over again. It had been years since weekends held any sort of meaning for him.

For a moment his eyes flickered to the bright skyline outside his window, and almost against his will he thought of his house in Connecticut. In just a matter of weeks it would be so beautiful there, he thought a little wistfully, the last of the snow melting and new growth turning the landscape bright green. He hadn't been there since right after Christmas, he recalled, when he'd taken three whole days off after winding up his business in Europe and before starting work at the press. It had been beautiful and utterly peaceful, and for a moment the longing to be there, out of his sterile and amazingly efficient office and at his house, surrounded by trees and quiet, was almost overwhelming.

And it wasn't really that far. Only a couple of hours away, he thought slowly. He could gather up these manuscripts, postpone the meetings, have his assistant cancel his lunch and dinner appointments. He could call his mother from the car and make his excuses; she wouldn't like it, but she probably wouldn't scold him too much. She knew what his schedule had been like lately. His eyes strayed to the chrome clock ticking quietly on his credenza. He could be in Connecticut by lunchtime.

Oh, he also had to inform her sister, the only person in his life who understood him more than he understood himself sometimes, that they had to reschedule their catch-up dinner for the week, which he valued very much. It was probably the only thing that kept him sane these days, his sister's constant ridicule of his time management, sometimes his hair, and Lisa's frightening ability to look through him and his well-guarded eyes, which, on the one hand, invaded his mental (and sometimes emotional) privacy, on the other, saved him a lot of effort of having to think of the right way to disclose anything that was wrong in his life to her. And that was good for his psyche, an outlet of some sort. Lisa was always there for him, and he abhored the fact their dinner date this for week had to pass.

With an effort he jerked his attention back to the manuscript spread in front of him. He couldn't even consider it, he told himself firmly. He had far too much work to do. Plus, it was Friday and traffic would be awful. There would be another time, another weekend, when things weren't so hectic. He stifled the little voice that said things wouldn't ever be less hectic, that the path he'd chosen would rarely, if ever, allow for lazy weekend getaways.

With the ease of long practice Mark pushed such thoughts away and focused on the manuscript in front of him until precisely 8:30 and then took a break, stretching in his chair before rising to get more coffee. He kept his back to the window as he exited his corner office, and reminded himself to close the blinds when he returned. It was far too much of a distraction today.

He strode down the hallway, returning greetings absently, his attention still on the manuscript on his desk. There was something fundamentally wrong with the beginning of the book –- not with the writing, which was exemplary, but with the structure. His brow furrowed. Perhaps if the first three chapters were rearranged to introduce the information in a timeline rather than by the separate accounts of several people . . .

He passed the smaller of the glassed-in conference rooms on his floor, moving fast. A meeting was in progress there and that pleased him. It was promising to see people in early and already working. Perhaps, as he'd hoped, they were starting to accept his way of doing things, perhaps they were beginning to understand that he truly had the press's best interests at heart. People were learning what was expected of them, and they were either rising to the challenge or he was weeding them out. And it was going to be a struggle but he was beginning to feel like he could do it, he could turn this press around and make it profitable, a subsidiary that his family's corporation could be proud of. And it would take people like these, he thought, people who weren't afraid of hard work. He glanced into the conference room as he passed to see who the early birds were, and as he did his entire train of thought derailed and ground to a halt. Mark slowed down and stared.

There were six people in the meeting, there were papers spread out on the table and a heated discussion of some sort seemed to be in progress. Mark identified book cover comps and various proofs of what appeared to be illustration plates. But his attention was commanded by the woman standing at the head of the table and apparently refereeing the discussion.

And of course it was Hayge, he thought in exasperation. Lately there was no escape. In fact, Hayge had featured prominently in a dream that had woken Mark before his alarm that very morning - a dream of huge brown eyes and a long, elegantly curved back and a full soft mouth and a voice that had whispered and begged. A dream that had left him aching and restless and even more cranky and disoriented than usual upon waking, a dream of such clarity and power that he felt a flush of inappropriate heat just from its memory even as he continued walking down the hallway of his place of business.

Hayge was nodding seriously as someone spoke to her, her brow furrowed a bit and her face solemn. She looked earnest and businesslike, and a part of Mark approved of the way she gave her full attention to the speaker - she didn't take notes or even glanced down at the artwork being discussed, she kept her beautiful glasses-covered eyes focused on the man speaking. Mark watched as she asked a question, nodded at the answer, and then began speaking herself. She was so animated, even her facial expressions were persuasive. She also tended to gesticulate when she talked, Mark noted, and barely kept himself from smiling fondly.

Hayge was one of the good ones, he thought. She was working hard to bring in promising books, books that brought some balance to the music department's baffling list. And here she was in an early morning meeting, following up on the progress of his books just as Mark had told the editors they must do. Hayge took her job seriously. Mark liked that.

He glanced reflexively at his watch and felt rage simmer. He'd kept Hayge out of his thoughts for less than three and a half hours.

He'd reached the break room without noticing a single person or thing on his way there, drank a glass of water, and refilled his coffee cup. He would take the long way back to his office.

The quiet tap at his door came exactly three hours and seventeen minutes later. Mark had switched from coffee to soda after 10:30, had worked his way through his issues with the first three chapters of the manuscript, and was currently focusing on the middle section of the book, which was much smoother. He'd also been obliged to take four urgent business calls and one personal one from his younger brother, who wanted to take his latest girlfriend to Mark's house in Connecticut for a romantic weekend. Mark had said no for the ninth time in the last year; if Tyler wanted to take his girlfriend out he could dip into his own funds and stay at a hotel, and if Mark couldn't visit his own house this weekend he didn't want anyone else there either. When he'd hung up the phone he'd closed his blinds against the bright spring day outside his window.

He had not, in the previous three hours and seventeen minutes, thought of Hayge Jimenez a single time. But as the tap came again and he spoke permission to enter he wasn't the slightest bit surprised to see Hayge ease through his half-open door and move toward him.

Mark watched her cross the room, her stride long and casual, her face neutral, eyes watchful. Hayge managed to look completely at ease until she locked both arms behind her when she stopped in front of his desk. Her eyes were focused over Mark's head, at the closed window blinds, and she was chewing slightly on her lower lip.

"Yes, Hayge. What is it?" he inquired. He kept his tone low and even and utterly disinterested. In no way did it betray his slight rise in temperature or the not-so-subtle interest his body took in Hayge's presence.

"I saw you noticed that meeting I was in this morning," Hayge started, and her tone was just as quiet as Mark's. "I just wondered, since you didn't join us," she continued, and Mark watched with interest as her cheeks looked as though an imaginary hand painted red across them, "if maybe you'd like a report?"

Mark raised his eyes to Hayge's face and caught a flash of golden brown behind glasses as Hayge's eyes darted away.

"Was this meeting regarding something that I should know about, or that you'd require my input on?" he asked smoothly. "Because if it was, maybe you should've invited me to attend when you set it up."

Hayge blinked hard and seemed to force herself to relax. "Not at all," she said, her voice just the slightest bit breathless. "I was talking to the art department and marketing about the Atcheson book," she continued, seeming to steady herself. "The new art director has some really great ideas about a cover, and I just thought, you know, maybe you'd be interested in the book's progress." Again her eyes skittered to Mark's face and then away, and Mark felt a deep and greedy hunger as he watched Hayge's teeth worry her lower lip. "Since you liked the manuscript," she finished.

The Atcheson book, Mark thought slowly, staring at Hayge as silence descended. The book Hayge had argued so earnestly and persuasively for over lunch a few weeks ago. When he'd reviewed the manuscript Mark had been pleased to see that his impulse to take a chance on Hayge's judgment had been correct. It was a wonderful book: well written, fast-paced and engaging. He anticipated, as Hayge obviously did, that it would do well.

Hayge's teeth continued to sink into her lip and her blush deepened. Mark realized that the silence had gone on too long, but he couldn't deny the pleasure he took in simply looking at Hayge. She really was just mysteriously tempting, in a way that Mark couldn't sometimes define, maybe it would be approximately accurate to liken her to a dark forest with so many wonderful, magical secrets inside that one was not allowed to explore, he thought ruefully, and stifled a sigh.

"I'd like to know what Nicholas has planned for the cover design," he finally said, pleased with his calm tone. "But I trust your judgment on this." Mark allowed himself a small smile and was ridiculously pleased when Hayge returned it, a shy smile that lit up her eyes. Eyes that sent him to a strange place, Mark thought dimly, and squashed that thought immediately because Hayge was speaking again, and she'd pulled her arms from behind her and was gesturing in a really charming way.

" . . . food's really good, and I could bring the cover treatments and the design layouts and we could look them over while we ate," she was saying, and the hope and anticipation in her eyes made Mark's heart squeeze painfully with longing.

Hayge trailed off and silence stretched between them again.

"Thank you, but I have a lunch meeting scheduled," Mark said politely, and for a moment it was a struggle to remember all the reasons that he must not think about or spend time with Hayge as he watched Hayge's face fall. Suddenly he was blinded with rage - why couldn't he go to lunch and talk about work things with Hayge? Mark worked so long and so hard - why couldn't he do this one thing that would give him so much pleasure?

Because it wouldn't be the one thing, he realized with something like despair. He would love to have lunch with Hayge, and he'd like to have dinner with her too, and go with her to the movies, or to a basketball game, and take her home and to his bedroom and strip the clothes off of her while she clawed and moaned, and . . .

Jesus, he had to get a grip on himself. Hayge was still standing stiffly in front of his desk, and if Mark didn't squash this right now it would only get worse.

Deliberately he dropped his eyes to the work on his desk and picked up his pen. "Send me a report," he said curtly as he picked up his pen. "E-mail is fine; just keep me apprised of the progress and I'll want to see the final proofs once you and Nicholas have decided on a design." The words of the manuscript in front of him blurred slightly and he clenched his fingers around his pen as he felt Hayge hesitate.

"Was there anything else, Hayge?" He would not look up at her, Mark told himself fiercely. He would not look at or think about Hayge again.

"No," Hayge's voice was very quiet, and as she turned slowly and headed for the office door Mark's eyes were drawn to her against his will. Fury raced through him at the set of Hayge's shoulders beneath her white long-sleeved shirt, at her bowed head. Fury at himself for hurting Hayge's feelings, anger at Hayge for inviting him to lunch and forcing Mark to reject her, rage at the entire ridiculous and impossible situation.

"Hold on," Mark said sharply, and Hayge stopped a few feet from the doorway, turning slightly toward him. Her cheeks were still red. "What on earth are you wearing?" Mark continued quietly, and Hayge blinked in bewilderment. She looked down at herself as if she couldn't remember.

"Oh, Rynan lets us wear jeans on Fridays," Hayge offered tentatively, her eyes wide. "I mean, if we don't have outside meetings or anything," she continued, and gestured helplessly. "He says it's good for morale."

Mark stared unsmilingly at her until Hayge shoved her hands into her pockets, an unusual gesture from a woman. "What a charming sentiment," he drawled. "But since Rynan has no idea who might be walking our halls or meeting with other departments, let me just say that the dress code was instituted for a reason. And Hayge," he paused until Hayge lifted her eyes from a study of her own tennis shoes to look at Mark. "It is never, _ever_ casual day at my press. Do you understand me?"

Hayge nodded, apparently unable to speak although Mark couldn't tell if it was fury or fear that kept her silent.

"Good," Mark said, and it was a dismissal. Hayge turned immediately to the door and marched out without looking back, but Mark watched her back retreat until it passed out of sight.

* * *

Once in her office, Hayge picked up a manuscript someone had placed on her chair and slammed it hard on her desk, taking comfort in the satisfyingly heavy noise it made, the way it made everything else on the desk vibrate. What the hell had she been _thinking_ inviting herself into Mark's office to brag about her meeting and then, worse still, asking him to lunch? When was she going to learn to stop courting rejection?

With a heavy sigh, Hayge reached for her jacket. If she was going to go home to change her clothes, she'd have to skip lunch, which would suck, because she was already hungry and she hadn't had much more than a granola bar for breakfast.

"Stupid," she said out loud, not sure whether she meant herself or Mark's ridiculous rules about formality in the office, then turned around in shock when a voice sounded from the doorway.

"What's stupid?" Nicholas, the new art director, said, his mouth twisted into a wicked grin.

"Dress codes." Normally Hayge wouldn't have been so forthcoming with someone she hadn't known for long, but she and Nicholas had hit it off since their first meeting, and Hayge felt safe to speak freely to him. Plus... he's British... so, yeah. Not that she "fancied" him or anything like that, but he immediately got around her and eased right into her personal space. One good way to describe is that he was a handsome, out-spoken lad with an endearing sense of humor.

Nicholas flicked eyes over Hayge. "You got in trouble for your clothes?"

Hayge nodded curtly, then let her own eyes travel from the ragged tee shirt Nicholas wore to the faded jeans in far, far worse condition than the ones she was wearing, to the scuffed, well-worn sneakers. She frowned.

"Has Mark seen _you_ today? Why the hell am I always the one who gets in trouble?"

"Salling wouldn't dare fuck with me like that," Nicholas said with absolute confidence, and Hayge believed him. "I've known him for far too long."

Now that was interesting. "Known him? How so?"

Nicholas cocked his head, looked hard at her. "Let's go get lunch and I'll tell you all about it."

"Sorry, I can't," Hayge said, shaking her head. "I have to go home and change my clothes."

Nicholas laughed. "For God's sake, Hayge - don't tell me you actually think he means it. You caught him on a bad day at the wrong time. He's not going to carry it any further."

"I'm really not so sure about that," Hayge dubiously said, thinking back to the precise, clipped tone of Mark's voice, the disapproving look in his eyes. "He kind of hates me, I think."

Nicholas rolled his eyes. "Okay, first off, that's just wrong. And second, if he comes after you again about the idiotic dress code, you just tell him Nick said it was okay, all right?"

Hayge scowled, because now Nicholas was making fun of her, and he didn't like that very much. "Fine, then," she said, and shrugged into her jacket. "That's exactly what I'll do."

* * *

"You know, it's kind of interesting he's picking on you at all," Nicholas said as they pushed through the crowded sidewalk to the deli he'd suggested for lunch. "It's actually pretty unusual for Salling to notice the people around him, at least on a personal level, so you must've done something to get on his radar."

Hayge carefully didn't react to that.

"He's so distant and disapproving all the time," she said. "I'd rather not be on the radar at all if this is how he behaves."

Nicholas laughed out loud. "Don't take it personally, okay? I mean, to me, it seems that you're doing a fine job, and if he hasn't told you differently, then I'll bet Mark thinks the same. It's just - he's not going to shower you with praise or anything like that. It's not how he works."

"So how does he work?"

"Well, I've never been on the job with him before, but I knew him for years when we were in college. He's just a very structured, very motivated person," Nicholas told him as if that were enough.

Hayge frowned. "That I know. But doesn't he ever have fun? Doesn't he ever, you know, just let loose every now and then?"

"Of course he does, and when he decides it's time to do that? He's as good at it as he is at everything else. Believe me," Nicholas said with a smirk. "When it came to parties and sex . . . well, let's just say he's had a varied and interesting love life, if you know what I mean."

Again, Hayge carefully controlled her facial expression.

"But as far as college went, and as far as his study habits or whatever, he was like a machine, so focused it was scary," Nicholas continued. "When Mark has a purpose or a goal in sight, nothing stops him from getting it."

"It's almost creepy, don't you think?" Hayge said, shivering a little, still trying to put thoughts of Mark's libido out of her mind.

Nicholas shrugged. "I don't know. He identifies what he wants and he goes for it. It's not all that strange."

"But if there's no down time - if he never relaxes or whatever, then that is strange. You can't live like that."

"You know about his family, right?"

Hayge nodded. "Through the society pages, sure."

"More likely the business pages," Nicholas said. "The Salling family has some serious money - I mean, we're talking billions here. And Mark's the heir apparent - always has been, ever since he was a kid. The weight of the expectations he's under - man. And I just - that kind of thing wears at you, you know?"

Hayge didn't know, because her own family had never been anything other than kind and supportive, but she nodded nonetheless.

"The one Mark's closest to right now is his sister, but even she has his moments. Oh, and his grandmother was pretty cool, but she's dead now," Nicholas said. "She was actually the one who loved Phoenix Press so much - acquired for them for years, actually. Mark used to come work for her in the summers. Did you know that?"

"No - no, I didn't," Hayge said, and felt her cheeks grow a little pink. "He's not exactly, uh, forthcoming."

Nicholas laughed and pushed Hayge a step closer into the deli. "He's really not a bad guy. You have to give it time."

"I'm not sure how much time I have, given that he's firing people left and right," Hayge said bitterly, then cringed as she realized that Nicholas was standing next to her precisely because of that firing.

"Listen - I don't know a whole lot about what went on before I came to the press, but I'll tell you this much: Mark does not fuck people over, and he does not do dumb things. He's one of the smartest people I know, and seriously? If Mark thought someone needed to be fired, then I'll bet they pretty much damn well did."

Hayge looked away at that, studying the menu, staring blankly at the Coke sign, and holding back her annoyance and indignation as the face of Peter Brumbridge, Phoenix Press's former art director, flashed through her mind.

"These things are never easy, though," Nicholas carefully said; it was a gesture of reconciliation, and Hayge slowly turned around and nodded at him.

"So Mark's got pressure from his family, then," she said casually, watching as the woman in front of her ordered a huge corned beef sandwich.

"Absolutely," Nicholas said. "He's really loyal to them, incredibly dedicated and protective. The things he's done for them - well. It's pretty insane."

Hayge was dying to ask exactly what Mark had done, but then the woman in front of her stepped away and she was up to order.

"I'll get it." Hayge looked behind in surprise to see Nicholas dangling a twenty-dollar bill in the air. "What with my awesome new art director salary and all."

"Yeah, and after this, you can go buy yourself some new clothes," Hayge said, then took the number the girl working the cash register gave her and headed out into the crowded dining room to find a table.

* * *

"So." Hayge put down her half-eaten turkey sandwich, wiped her mouth, and looked expectantly at Nicholas. "What crazy things has Mark done for his family?"

"Ah, I get you now. You're looking for blackmail material. And to think I thought you weren't all that bright," Nicholas teased.

"I, no. I -"

"Relax, relax." Nicholas laughed, then crumpled up his napkin and sat back in his chair. "Well, first of all, there's the fact that for years now he's been working, what, sixty to eighty hours a week for their corporation, bringing in more and more money each year even though they're already all gazillionaires. And obviously, he likes it, likes making deals and being a corporate shark and all that, but putting in hours like that is a little bit beyond the call of duty, don't you think?

"Yeah." Yet again, Hayge was deeply grateful for her own understanding, kind family.

"Probably the dumbest thing I can remember him doing for his family, though, was dating this girl for - well, just forever. She was some debutante, perfectly groomed to marry into the family, and his parents just loved her."

"Is he still with her? What was her name?" The questions were out before Hayge could stop herself, and she hoped to god Nicholas didn't pick up on the urgency behind her words.

"Hell, no," Nicholas said with relish. "I mean, she was fine and all, but he just - the interest wasn't there, if you get what I mean."

Now Hayge did blush, because Nicholas looked knowing and sly, and for a split second, she was certain, absolutely certain, that Mark had told Nicholas that they'd slept together - and that thought was very nearly intolerable.

"Oh, hey, I remember - Her name was Naya," Nicholas said then, tactfully dropping the previous subject. "He actually still sees her from time to time - I don't think she ever really got over him."

"Hm," Hayge said, thinking about the beautiful woman he'd seen Mark making promises to at his party.

"So anyway, two years Mark spends with her - two years, and it was all because his family liked her. He - well. He'd do a lot for them."

Hayge nodded. "So this press thing, then - that's also for them?"

"Actually, no." Nicholas took a huge gulp of soda, then gestured to the uneaten portion of Hayge's sandwich. "Hey - I paid good money for that. Eat it, all right?"

Hayge rolled her eyes and picked up the sandwich while Nicholas geared up for another talk.

"The press thing - well, that was his grandmother. She's the one who really loved it, and she was always kind of the dreamer in the family, not the practical one, not at all concerned with money. From a financial standpoint, you have to know it's ridiculous for Mark even to bother with this press. I mean, he could bring in more for Antaeus in a single week in his regular job than he's going to do in an entire year at Phoenix. No - I think Mark's doing this for his grandma, for her memory in some way."

"He must have loved her a lot."

"Yeah," Nicholas said. "She died when we were in college, actually, and that day - well. Let's just say it just wasn't easy for him."

Hayge sighed, because feeling sorry for Mark and being concerned about him wasn't where she'd hoped to end up with this conversation. It was almost impossible to reconcile the Mark she'd met last summer with the Mark who was currently terrorizing the press - adding in the Mark who had been devastated over losing his grandmother was too much. If anything, she was now going to be even more confused.

"But that's probably enough about all that," Nicholas murmured and then raised his eyebrows and laughed out loud, looking at someone behind Hayge's back. "Jesus Christ - you're actually gonna eat with me today?"

"Canceled a lunch meeting just so I could have the pleasure," a dry, familiar voice said, and Hayge sat up very straight and felt her spine tingle, then turned around and took a deep breath as she faced Mark.

"Oh," Mark said in a low voice as his eyes flashed over Hayge, and then looked slowly, carefully back and forth between Hayge and Nicholas. "So you know each other."

"We work together, stupid - of course we do," Nicholas said, and kicked out a chair for Mark. "Sit."

But before Mark could do that, Hayge lurched to her feet, hastily gathering together the remains of her lunch. "Take this seat, okay?" she said, looking into silver-sharp eyes and as usual having to force herself not to respond. "I was just on my way out."

"Hayge, c'mon," Nicholas said, obviously exasperated. "Isn't this a bit -"

"No, see, I have a meeting at, uh, one, and I need to prepare for it." Hayge began to back away from the table, horribly, frustratingly aware of the fact that Mark was looking her up and down again, taking in her sunny-white shirt, her comfortable jeans, her too-casual shoes. "So I just - see you guys later, okay?"

Mark shrugged without answering, then sat down next to Nicholas and opened his own sandwich.

"Bye," Nicholas said, and Hayge fled.

As Hayge hurried out of the deli, Mark followed her closely with his eyes. Yes, the jeans were inappropriate, but Mark wasn't sorry at all to have seen her in them. They were fake-faded and comfortable and they hugged the curve of her behind just right. Her long legs seemed to go on forever and that jeans highlighted the shape that they took, too... if he could look away so as to salvage some of his dignity a little bit - until Nicholas broke in and beat him to it.

"Jesus, Salling. Drool much?"

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about, Mark said, regretfully dragging eyes away from Hayge and giving Nicholas a clear, cold stare. He could have been looking at anything, really. Nicholas didn't necessarily know.

"Yeah, you know, that stare of death thing?" Nicholas gave him an evil grin. "It hasn't worked on me in years, if ever, Mark. Now Hayge - I'll bet she blushes a little bit, starts stammering, maybe even takes a step or two back from you. And I'll bet you love it, bet you eat that shit up."

Mark twisted the cap off his water bottle and took a long drink, and he was not going to think about Hayge all nervous and flustered, absolutely not.

"Fortunately for me, I've known you far too long and far too well to be fooled by any of your power tricks," Nicholas proudly told him. "And one day, so will Hayge."

Mark had better things to do than put up with this.

"So, how was your morning? Did you get the comments from marketing on the Stanton cover?" he asked Nicholas.

"Judging from the way I see you looking at her, I know you're interested, but what I can't figure out is whether you've slept with her yet," Nicholas went on cheerfully. "On one hand, I'm pretty damn sure you did, because I just spent an entire lunch reassuring her that you don't, in fact, hate her - and given your rather . . . unique approach to love and intimacy, that seems pretty much par for the course. But on the other -"

"Because I think they were wrong," Mark interrupted. If he simply pretended to be having another conversation entirely, sometimes Nicholas would fall in step. "If we make the author's name larger, we're going to ruin the balance of the thing, going to start overshadowing the image."

"Yeah - it's a great picture," Nicholas said, and then added, "But on the other hand, she's so, so tense around you that it's almost as if the two of you have never even looked at each other in that way. So you see, I'm on the fence here."

"So if you want to overrule them, you have my support." Mark put down his sandwich and then pointed at Nicholas and gave in. "And shut the fuck up about her, because I'm not going to discuss it with you. I wouldn't discuss it with you even if it weren't colossally inappropriate."

"I doubt they'll give me any problems, but thanks." Nicholas grabbed a crumpled napkin, then threw it across the room toward the wastebasket, missing by a wide margin and earning a glare from the women behind the counter. "I'll be right back," he told Mark, and then hurried across the room to throw it away properly.

"It's just that she's so completely your type," he went on after he returned as Mark chewed turkey and wished he were anywhere else in the universe. "You do have a type, you know."

"Everyone has a type," Mark said, and then suspiciously narrowed his eyes at Nicholas as he realized something awful. "Maybe she's your type."

Nicholas grinned. "Oh, yes, absolutely my type, Mark. Imagine what you'll do when I get tired of worshiping her from afar and finally decide to fight you for her."

"I'm not competing with you - I don't have to compete with you -" Mark began with a fierceness that surprised him, and then broke off in embarrassment.

"Of course you don't," Nicholas said softly. "You've already got her, don't you?"

Mark shook his head. "I'm not having this conversation."

"I know, I know; you're a private guy and I'm teasing you and you hate it. I've always gotten that about you. But Mark, how many years am I going to have to sit here and watch you not go for what you want because of the messed-up rules you have in your head?"

"Not fraternizing with employees is a bad rule?" Mark found it impossible to mask the incredulity in his voice. "Is there anything you want to tell me about the art department?"

Nicholas rolled his eyes. "Have you always been this unfunny or was I just too stoned in college to notice?"

"And here you wonder why I don't confide in you," Mark snapped.

"Look - it's just that seriously, Mark, she seems like a nice girl - a really nice girl, someone who would actually be really good for your narrow, repressed self. And yeah, I know the boss-employee thing makes it complicated, but this kind of chance doesn't come along all that often, and you should really - you should go for it, you ask her out or something, go get a drink after work. That's all I'm saying."

"Nick, I just -"

"You don't have to confirm or deny anything. I'm not even going to make you admit to checking out her arse, even though you were - you so totally, absolutely were. Just - think about maybe getting to know her a bit, all right?"

Mark caught himself from smiling just in time. Think about Hayge? If Nicholas only knew.

"Yeah. Thanks," Mark said shortly, and then finished off his sandwich and got to his feet. "Okay - I have to go. I've got a meeting in ten minutes."

"A meeting? Why, so does Hayge," Nicholas said gleefully, and then laughed in Mark's face as he tried yet another stare of death.


	6. Chapter 6

Mark worked out on machines almost every morning but the one concession he made to the weekend was to try to jog in Central Park on Saturday mornings. He considered it an indulgence - it actually took longer to get the same level of workout because he usually used his high-tech treadmill and set it for a brisk uphill pace to get the maximum effect in the least amount of time. Time was always at a premium, but on fine Saturday mornings he would allow himself to sleep in for an extra half-hour, and if weather permitted, to run outside.

This morning he reached the park a bare half-hour after dawn, and while he stretched out his eyes lingered on the dramatic landscaping at the park's entrance. Spring had sprung, apparently while he wasn't paying attention, and the floral display at the entrance to the park was nothing short of breathtaking. The traffic noises behind him seemed ugly and out of place, and for a moment he wished that he didn't have to be in the city today, that he could go to his house in Connecticut and spend the weekend, the week, maybe the entire month there. He sighed as he switched legs and leaned over, feeling the good pull of muscles as he wrapped a hand around the toe of his shoe and carefully stretched his hamstring. He'd been thinking thoughts like that all too often lately.

The sun was barely up and there were very few people around, mostly solitary joggers like himself. As he started to walk down the path he'd selected he took a series of deep breaths and tried to shake off the feelings of dissatisfaction that had plagued him recently. His grandmother had always urged him to take pleasure in the things around him, to appreciate each moment for what it was instead of rushing through life, and Mark reminded himself to look around as he moved deeper into the park. It was a beautiful morning, crisp and cool. There was a mist coming off the lake and as he moved down the path the quiet of the park wrapped around him as the traffic noises gradually dimmed. It almost made him smile.

He started to jog, feeling his muscles slowly warm and his breath grow deeper as he fell into a good and easy rhythm. For a few precious moments he was relaxed, but he hadn't gone half a mile before his mind began to tick over the things that he had to accomplish this day: he needed to go into the office, and he wanted to look over the manuscript that he hoped Hayge had reviewed, signed off on and left on his desk. Mark was counting on that manuscript being completely polished because he also needed to outline an agenda for an important meeting with the author and the Marketing department. This was a real problem author, someone who needed to be handled with extra care. He also was obligated to attend a black tie event that night for a huge charity fund raiser, which also meant he needed to pick up a corsage for Naya.

Mark tried repeatedly to push it all away, to enjoy the peaceful morning, the calm, smooth lake and the sounds of the birds as they begin to wake up. But it was no use. Pretty soon he was running at a punishing pace and scowling fiercely as his mind got busier and busier.

He followed the trail as it curved away from the lake and into a lightly wooded area, but he was focused unseeingly on the path in front of him and his mind was already in his office, working. When a jogger from another path drew up and fell into an easy rhythm beside him, several seconds passed before Mark realized that it was Hayge.

Hayge was wearing a loose white T-shirt that had a big "Stop pretending you don't want me" in big, bold letters across it, and a pair of dangerously short shorts. And Hayge... Hayge was not alone. She was engaged in what look like a very interesting conversation with a tall, blonde guy who looked like straight out of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue; which was a shame. Because here was Mark, thinking Hayge hadn't been one of _those_ girls, and clearly, he was wrong. Hayge was smiling and laughing and doing all sorts of hand gestures as the guy, also smiling, white teeth and blue eyes twinkling, locked his eyes on hers, while they jogged at a slow pace, obviously savouring the moment and wanting to make it last. Then Mark was struck by a sudden wave of rage. Because no, he should not feel jealous as if he had any right to, and no, it was wrong spying on them as if they couldn't just turn sideways to - oh, shit. Hayge glanced sideways and looked like she was trying to conjure up a smile...at Mark. Which Mark didn't return right away because a deer caught in the headlights couldn't really have done the same now, couldn't it? Hayge looked so relaxed and peaceful and almost happy, even though her eyes were puffy from sleep. Well, of course, that was because she had someone to keep the morning interesting. Mark took another glance at the blonde, who had an annoying (and somewhat, knowing) smirk on his face. Mark hated it... hated it with a passion.

Other than exchanging wordless nods of greeting they did not speak. After which she'd turn back to her companion and they'd pick up where they left off. It made him want to go over and beat up the guy right in front of her for some reason. But that was just his body talking, not his mind. And Mark had twenty-five years worth of experience that taught him following his mind was always the best (and the smartest) way to go.

They gradually slowed as the path led them to one of the park entrances and Mark leaned over, catching his breath and stretching his hamstrings. It had been a solid three-mile run for Mark, and based on the wetness of his shirt. And to his slight horror, beside him Hayge and her little friend went to a halt, both panting and trying to catch their breaths in rhythm. Hayge crouched down and clutched her knees, unable to steady and ease her breathing. She sounded like she just finished taking a hike at Mt. Kilamanjaro thrice in a row. Eventually, she came falling against the grass, her back to the ground, breathing and breathing and breathing. To Mark's surprise, the blonde burst into a laugh, a very loud, very mocking laugh. "Such a girl." He quipped, in addition to the already insulting giggle fit he was having. This guy obviously didn't know his manners. Here was Hayge, gasping for air, trying to get some amount of oxygen into her lungs – the least he could do was offer some semblance of sympathy. Mark found the whole situation wrong and just plain weird. Aren't you supposed to be this sweet, caring gentleman at the least if you're trying to put the moves on a girl? It just didn't make any sense.

"Ass." Hayge mumbled against her arm, which was now draped over her face.

_Ass?_ Mark echoed in his head, confused.

The blonde was still giggling, a little bit, and then sat beside her on the grass, arms propping him up behind him.

Mark had a moment to suspect that maybe... the two of them were old friends. Perhaps they unaware that he was standing not too far away from them, barely two meters in distance, because they barely showed any sign of acknowledgement. They barely looked at him. That was before the blonde spoke.

"So, you're Mark Salling."

"Of course, he is, you idiot."

"I'm not talking to you." The blonde said playfully as he dodged a smack from Hayge.

"Like Hayge said, I am he." Mark answered in what he hoped to be a serious, superior Mark-Salling-president-of-the-company voice.

"Wow. We didn't know a high-roller such as yourself jogged here."

Mark didn't know if that was either in any way a compliment or an insult. Hayge tried to hit the blonde again, and this time, she didn't fail. "Well, there are a lot of things you don't know." He replied in what he knew now a stone-cold voice.

"O-ho-ho." The blonde's eyes lit up, seemingly unintimidated in the slightest. In fact, he appeared to be amused. Mark loathed that. "I sure don't."

"I apologize for my friend, Mark. He was dropped on his head as a baby." Hayge finally, for the first time, addressed him. And Mark mentally rolled his eyes in shame when he felt a little too happy hearing her say his name.

"That does explain a lot." Mark said, and this time Hayge laughed at the mortified look on the blonde's face. Then a second later, the blonde smiled. "I like you already." He said to Mark.

Then he turned to Hayge. "Why don't we invite him to...?" He asked in a small voice.

Mark caught every flash of quiet disapproval on Hayge's eyes.

"So, it's settled then." The blonde said, loudly this time. "Mark," he turned to Mark, "there's this place, about three blocks up that way." The blonde gestured vaguely toward the street, smiling. "They have good breakfasts, really good ones, and if you get there early there's no wait, usually, and it's pretty cheap." Mark noted the utterly charming blush on Hayge's face in the background and he smiled a little as he watched Hayge make a small, exasperated face at herself, all in the background. "Not that you care about that, but my point is, the food is really good and there's a lot of it. And, you know, if you're hungry . . ." then the blonde plunged on. "I mean, we're going there, now. Because we're hungry. Right, Hayge? Maybe you'd like to go too."

He continued to stare intently up the street and Mark turned to face them, but really, he wanted to study Hayge's profile, she was looking at her feet, unsure of the arrangement. He'd handed Hayge more than one rejection lately; that explained the doubt painted on her face. Mark had no time today to waste with breakfast; he had things to do and his usual morning protein shake was waiting for him at home. Going out for breakfast was simply not an option. So why did the thought of sitting across a table from Hayge in a greasy spoon diner, both of them in sweaty jogging clothes, hold so much appeal, even with the blonde present?

"I really don't have the time," he told the blonde, but the apology in his voice was for Hayge. She was still fidgeting in the background, shuffling in her feet, shifting eyes back and forth, looking at the sky, then the ground again.

"Ifyou',youshouldn't," Hayge said in a quick gush of barely audible words, as if she'd been itching to get it out in the open since the conversation about breakfast had started. "It's done, it's more than done." She cleared her throat, and then spoke more clearly. "Seriously, it's the cleanest manuscript I've ever seen, and I stayed late to make sure you wouldn't have to do a single thing to it, other than read and enjoy it. It's all there for you to review, and I know you're thinking about the agenda for the meeting with the author on Monday, but I know that author and have something drafted for you to look over too. Everything is all ready, Mark. It's, I mean, I don't think it's going to take much to get ready for that meeting." She paused, breathing quickly, and Mark watched him closely as Hayge composed herself and shrugged.

"And, you know," Hayge added, suddenly casual and more than a little remote. "My mom always said that it's important to start off your day with a good breakfast."

"Yeah! That's right!" The blonde agreed enthusiastically, casually, although Mark had the feeling the blonde was still amazed about Hayge snatching the floor from him and going beyond extraordinary measures just to persuade this workaholic, career-driven multimillionaire to have breakfast with them. "Desperate, much?" The blonde added in mock-whisper to Hayge, caring little to none that Mark was standing barely a foot from them, and could hear every word.

Hayge nudged the blonde's rib, not too gently, which elicited a small cry from him. Mark had to smile inside.

"Yeah," Mark said, surprising himself. "My grandmother always said the same."

Hayge smiled at him with a bewitching mixture of shyness and persuasion, and Mark felt his resistance crumble. "Well, let's go then," Hayge said lightly. "Casey will buy."

"Yeah, Casey will buy." The blonde said in a less-than-happy voice. "I'm Casey, by the way." He added to Mark as if it was the last thing that mattered. Mark decided then that the blonde, which Mark would start calling him in his head from now on, wasn't a threat.

"Nice to meet you." Mark made a gesture. "Lead the way," he said simply and felt the force of Hayge's pleased smile all the way to his toes as they turned and headed up the street together, their steps perfectly matched.

* * *

Mark had barely noticed when his assistant left the book in his in-box; he'd been on a transatlantic conference call that had taken all his attention. It had been a very, very busy afternoon and when he finally focused on it, hours and hours later, the sight of it made him scowl. It wasn't one of the books he'd been in favor of keeping, and he would have cut it from the list immediately if it hadn't already been in production. With a mental sigh he picked it up and leafed through it with an utter lack of interest. The cover was staid and dull, the colors muted, the graphic simplistic. Even the font seemed old-fashioned and stodgy.

It was when he looked at the back cover and frowned at the lackluster description that he noticed it. For a long moment he stared at the small bar code and its ISBN number while his heart rate accelerated and the edges of his vision began to pulse red. He slammed the book down on his desk with controlled fury and turned to his computer. As the list came up he stared at the number assigned to this book, and then looked hard at the book's cover again. The number was wrong.

Five minutes later, Mark's assistant anxiously delivered the production files for the book to Mark, and one minute after that, Mark was scanning the various memos and in-house checklists, searching fiercely to see what had gone wrong, where the system had broken down. When he saw that only one person, Rynan Paguio, had reviewed the final cover comp, and when he saw the note to the production manager that Rynan had written - "Print run for this one is rather small, and this sat on my desk for far too long, so push it through without routing to anyone else, okay?" - Mark was on his feet and out the door of his office before he even realized he was moving. His heart pounded heavily in his ears as he strode down the hallway and thundered down the spiral stairs that led to the acquisitions department two at a time. He was dimly aware of people scuttling out of his way as he passed and one man actually dropped the folders he was carrying but Mark didn't slow down until he reached the door of Rynan's office. He knocked once, perfunctorily, and then burst inside.

An advance copy of the book was on Rynan's desk, but the office was empty, the computer off, the lights dark. Mark yanked the sleeve of his shirt up and glared at his watch. Not even 6:00 and Rynan, who had yet to put in a full day that entire week, had apparently left early.

For a moment the rage threatened to consume him and Mark clenched his teeth, biting back the curse, aware of the interested ears in the hallway. A print run of 3,000 of Rynan's book in the warehouse ready to ship to wholesalers the next morning with an incorrect ISBN number, and Rynan obviously hadn't even cared enough to check the advance copy before he'd left. He couldn't believe it.

Mark took a deep breath and loosened his grip on the offending book. New stickers would have to be generated, and they'd all have to be affixed by hand before shipping the next day. And the person who'd fucked it up, he thought savagely, was going to be the one to fix it.

He strode out of Rynan's silent office and down the hall to Hayge's. Hayge's assistant had left but there was a square of light slanting into the darkened hallway and as he expected, Hayge was bent over her desk, frowning intently at a manuscript. He pushed aside the sly observation that Hayge looked adorable with her wire-rimmed glasses, that her mouth looked soft and lush as she nibbled on her lower lip, that her uncombed hair was draping so endearingly across her face, and then ruthlessly crushed his response to the bright smile that lit up Hayge's face when she looked up and saw Mark in his doorway.

"There's been a colossal fuckup," Mark snapped without preamble, and watched the smile drop tragically from Hayge's face as she carefully set her pen down. He tossed the book on Hayge's desk and watched her brow furrow as she slowly picked it up. "Your boss," he continued in a low and deadly tone that he just managed to keep from shaking with rage, "circumvented the normal cover check and didn't check the ISBN, and now it's wrong." He watched comprehension and dismay spread over Hayge's face, saw her gulp.

"This . . . these are part of what's shipping tomorrow?" Hayge asked quietly, and Mark could tell by the tone of her voice that she already knew the answer. He waited grimly as Hayge turned the book over and looked at the back cover; saw her heave a deep breath as she examined the ISBN.

"I want you to find him," Mark continued quietly. "Call him at home or wherever the hell he is, and tell him to get his ass back here. Every one of these books of his will have to be re-stickered. Tonight."

Hayge was pale, but her chin rose stiffly as she pulled her glasses off and stood up. "This is my fault," she said firmly and Mark restrained the urge to roll his eyes. "It is," Hayge insisted. "I knew I should've checked the final copy before it went out, I must have missed the number . . ."

"Hayge, I know whose responsibility this is," Mark said, his teeth clenched. "Throwing yourself on your sword is very dramatic and noble, but you didn't have anything to do with the final review on this one. I wish you _had_," he added sardonically, "but you didn't. This is Rynan's fuckup." He paused and took a deep breath, and continued in a slightly calmer tone. "Now, please get him in here to clean it up."

He turned away abruptly, not wanting to see Hayge's face or hear any more of her attempts to cover for Rynan. He strode back to his office as quickly as he'd come and as he gave instructions to his assistant to print the new ISBN labels he thought furiously that Rynan was lucky he hadn't been in his office right then. If Mark had seen him, he might have been tempted to wring his neck. He couldn't understand why Hayge had such loyalty to him.

It was more than an hour before Mark decided he'd calmed down sufficiently to go to the warehouse and have an adult conversation with Rynan. He expected that Rynan would be there along with whichever of his editors he'd been able to cajole into helping him sticker the books, so it was something of a surprise to find a disheveled Hayge with some of her buttons undone, hair pulled into a bun and her sleeves rolled up, sitting all alone in the darkened warehouse, silently putting sticker after sticker on stacks of new books.

And just like that Mark was enraged again. "What the hell are you doing down here?"

"I told you," Hayge said levelly as she carefully placed a sticker on a book and put it in the neat pile beside her. "This screw-up is my fault, so I'm going to fix it." She reached into an open box and drew out three more books. She did not even glance at Mark.

Mark closed his eyes and took a long, slow, deep breath. "Who's helping you?" he asked quietly and opened his eyes to see Hayge calmly opening another box.

"I didn't ask for help. I don't see any reason to force other people to pay for my mistake," Hayge said serenely. "I can handle it just fine."

Mark looked at the pallet holding the 3,000 books. Hayge was going to be there all night, and she still might not make the morning shipment deadline. Mark felt his hands clench into fists. This wasn't even Hayge's responsibility - Hayge wouldn't have ever made such a careless error in the first place.

Without a word he wheeled around and strode out of the warehouse, moving quickly back to his office. The halls were mostly silent; everyone in the press had gone home. Mark hesitated for a moment as he looked at his desk. He had so much work to do tonight; he'd cancelled his evening plans in the hopes of getting things done so he wouldn't have to devote his entire weekend to catching up. Then he thought about Hayge, alone in the silent warehouse with a pile of stickers and a shipping pallet full of books, and he sighed as he turned to the small closet in the corner of his office. He was pretty sure he had jeans and an old shirt he didn't care about in there.

He made a couple of telephone calls before changing out of his suit and heading grimly back down to the warehouse. Hayge was right where he'd left her, sitting at the metal desk on the receiving dock and methodically putting stickers on the books. Mark leaned against the door jam and crossed his arms, watching silently as Hayge placed a book gently back into its box, careful not to crease the cover or damage the edge. Mark pulled his gaze from Hayge's precise and economical movements and looked at the pallet full of books. Five boxes down, Mark noted bleakly. 115 to go.

Hayge opened the next box, pulled the Styrofoam placeholders out, and neatly stacked the books on the metal desk, back side up. She looked up from the sheet of stickers and froze as Mark walked into the warehouse and moved toward her, her eyes flickering over Mark's jeans and long-sleeved tee shirt. Then her mouth compressed, her features sharp and pale in the dim light.

"I told you I can handle this," she said tightly.

"And I told you to get the person _responsible_ to handle it," Mark shot back.

"I _am_ the person responsible," Hayge asserted. "And I don't need your help." The sheet of labels in her hand was shaking slightly, Mark noted with some interest. She was hiding it well but Hayge was very, very agitated, and Mark felt some of his anger subside.

"Well, it'll go faster with some help," Mark said carefully. "Or are you going to fight me on that too?"

Hayge seemed to hesitate, her eyes stubbornly on the stack of books in front of her.

"I'm sure you have other things to do," she said quietly. "More important things."

Mark allowed himself to study Hayge, to really look at her. She seemed drawn and pale in the dim light of the warehouse. Her shoulders were slightly hunched, and there were bags under her brown eyes. She looked angry and upset and very tired.

"I do," Mark agreed. "But I wouldn't be able to concentrate on the things I need to concentrate on, knowing that this was going on down here." He waited for Hayge to digest that, saw her accept it with a shrug, her eyes still on the books in front of her. "So, let's just get this done, okay? And we can forgo the discussion of blame and responsibility and consequences."

Hayge's mouth tightened again, but when she opened his mouth to respond she was interrupted by a knock at the receiving door. Mark pulled his eyes away from the clean lines of Hayge's profile and moved to answer it.

"I ordered food," he threw over his shoulder as he pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. "I haven't eaten and I'm pretty sure you haven't either."

When he returned a moment later with the food Hayge was still seated at the desk, and seemed to have regained her composure. She looked up cautiously when Mark approached and eyed the bags with interest as Mark set them down on the corner of the desk. Her cheeks were pink.

"So, what did you get?"

Mark opened the first bag and pulled out a neat Styrofoam container and some plastic silverware. "Pork chops," he said, peering inside. "Rice, vegetables, just the basics. This one," he indicated the other bag, "should be chicken. You can pick."

Hayge snorted a little, but she was smiling as she shook her head. "And this is what you call the basics. Most people would've called for pizza," she informed Mark with some amusement. "I mean, something easy and fast? You had to order a three course meal?"

Mark drew himself up haughtily but couldn't stop the smile that twitched across his mouth. "Yes, well, your mom says the key to a good day is breakfast, and mine is more of a good dinner advocate." He was ridiculously pleased to see Hayge smile at him as she picked up her plastic fork and started to grab her meal. Then Hayge hesitated, and reached for her purse on the table behind her. "Let me pay you for this," she started, and Mark waved it away.

"Don't worry about it."

Hayge looked up, immediately distressed. "No. I mean, Casey wanted to buy breakfast that one morning, that day after the park, and you grabbed the bill too fast. Let me do this."

Ah, yes. Breakfast that one Saturday morning, the morning he'd run into Hayge (and the blonde) at the park. The memory of that meal had taken on the qualities of a surreal dream for Mark; more than once he'd wondered if it had really happened at all. Had he really sat next to Hayge (and again, the blonde) at the counter of a greasy spoon diner early on a Saturday morning, sipping coffee and eating a Denver omelet?

Had he really listened to Hayge talk about a movie she'd seen that week, and discussed the previous night's hockey game, which Hayge had watched on television and Mark had listened to on the radio while he worked at home? Had they really argued amiably about a foul call in the third quarter while Mark wondered silently how Hayge could smell so good first thing in the morning after a long, hard run? The blonde stayed in the background of things, observing them with a fond expression that he couldn't seem to slap away from his face. The blonde and Hayge argued a lot, but laughed a lot, as well. Mark had never quite seen her so relaxed and bubbly anywhere else. The blonde and Hayge seemed to have a bond, a bond that, surprisingly, Mark didn't feel jealous of.

Mark had spent a fair amount of time not thinking about that morning.

"Hayge," he finally said. "Don't worry about it."

Hayge regarded him silently for a moment, then slowly tucked her own wallet back into her bag. "Okay. Well, thank you," she said quietly.

After that they worked in silence for a long time as they stickered books and quietly ate their meals. They developed an efficient rhythm, taking turns opening and re-boxing the books. Hayge cleared away the remains of their meals and turned on the small radio above the small desk after politely asking Mark if he minded. Mark didn't. It sparked an easy discussion about music, and Mark learned that Hayge liked alternative, which was unusual for a woman. But then again, hadn't Hayge proved to be different in a lot of ways? She loved to talk basketball, didn't wear as much make-up, and was the first one-night-stand that really stuck in Mark's memory. Okay, wrong train of thought.

"I can't believe someone from the South, someone who loves bluegrass, doesn't like country music," Mark commented.

"I can't believe a rich ivy-league boy like yourself does," Hayge countered, and her bright eyes and easy smile startled Mark into a real laugh. Hayge could be so innocent and smart and funny and beautiful all at the same time.

"Hey now," he said. "You're the one who went to Harvard." It was astounding - he was sitting in a dusty warehouse in the middle of the night doing mind-numbing, menial work, and he was actually enjoying himself.

Hours passed, and he and Hayge talked peacefully about topics that had nothing to do with the press or the books and stickers in front of them. Then they were on the last box, and Hayge took a deep breath and said "Mark, look. I really wish you wouldn't mention this to Rynan."

Mark stared at her in disbelief. The comfortable relaxation he'd enjoyed for the last few hours drained away, leaving him cold. "Why on earth would you ask me to do that?"

Hayge shifted uncomfortably. "I know you don't agree with me," she said simply, "but I really do feel responsible for the ISBN. Rynan's never been good with this sort of detail," she said in a rush as Mark started to object. "I mean, he's always depended on me to take care of these things, and it's my fault that the number was missed."

Mark stared at her and struggled to bring his temper under control. "No," he said flatly. "I appreciate your loyalty, but the answer is no."

Unbelievably, Hayge's face flushed with anger. "Look," she said, her voice starting to rise. "I just told you, it's part of my job to . . ."

"Stop right there," Mark said fiercely. "Don't try to tell me what part of this is your job, or what part of it is Rynan Paguio's. Don't you dare try to insult me with this ridiculous line of thought. Do you really think I don't know how the press operates? Do you really think that I don't know whose responsibility this," he brandished the last book at Hayge, watching him clench his teeth, "this fuckup is?"

"I'm trying to _tell_ you," Hayge said loudly, her brows knitting together, "I just don't think that it's fair to blame . . ."

_"Fair_?" Mark interrupted incredulously. "You want to talk about fairness here? How fair is it that Rynan Paguio refused to take responsibility for this book? _His_ book, Hayge. How fair is it that he's home sleeping and you're here at," he cocked an eye at the clock above the receiving door, "two-thirty in the morning, fixing his mistake?"

"That's not the way it happened - Rynan didn't refuse to come, I just couldn't get in touch with him and then I figured, you know, this whole thing was my fault in the first place." Hayge made an angry gesture and her voice rose. "You're so goddamn arrogant! If you'd just shut _up_ for a minute, and let me explain!" Hayge's face was flushed wildly; she was shouting and Mark felt his pulse pound in fury.

"Watch your mouth," Mark warned tightly, and Hayge threw him a resentful look.

"Don't tell me what to do," she answered furiously. "You don't know how things work in our department. You've only been here for a little while, you don't know how we operate, how we get things done . . ." and in a flash Mark was toe to toe with her, right up in her personal space and watching closely as Hayge's eyes widened and her mouth closed with an audible snap.

"I told you to watch your mouth," Mark hissed, and he was too close, he could see Hayge's eyes dilate, hear her suddenly indrawn breath and watch the way her eyes dropped almost helplessly to Mark's mouth. She didn't move away, not even the slightest bit. Mark struggled hard with his shredding control for a long, silent moment, his hands curling into fists and his head spinning as he watched Hayge's mouth drop slightly open.

Then Hayge leaned in and covered Mark's mouth with hers.

Mark went completely still for an endless moment as Hayge's lips pressed firmly into his, his anger shuddering into something darker and deeper. Oh, this was familiar. He remembered this all too well - the feel of Hayge's gorgeous, slick mouth, the way she smelled faintly of a fruity shampoo, the way her long fingers curled into Mark's waist as she eased closer. Thoughts raged furiously through his head: drag Hayge closer, stop her, pull away, lean in; and then he shivered and parted his lips, inviting Hayge in. Hayge's breath hitched; she wrapped her arms around Mark and pulled him tightly against her body as their tongues tangled.

This, Mark realized dimly, was something he'd wanted since he'd walked into the warehouse hours and hours ago. It was something he'd wanted since seeing Hayge in his office earlier that day. It was something he'd wanted from the first time he'd seen Hayge in his own living room, all those months ago. He tightened his own arms around Hayge's waist and tilted his head, angling deeper and luxuriating in the feel of Hayge's smooth hands smoothing shakily down his own back. This was what he wanted, he thought fuzzily, preoccupied with Hayge's greedy mouth and the feel of her hips under his palms as he pulled her closer, nestling her tightly against his body until they both gasped. This, right here. Right now.

"Oh god, you make me crazy," Hayge mumbled thickly as she broke the kiss to mouth Mark's jaw line. Her voice, low and husky, sent a thin shiver down Mark's spine and he gasped as Hayge's tongue found the pulse on the side of his neck. Mark's hands had slid down to curve around Hayge's ass and pull her tighter, grinding deliciously even as his brain started to work, started to remind him of things he desperately didn't want to think about.

It caused him actual physical pain to pull his hands away from Hayge's body and step back from her hands and her mouth. When he did Mark realized that his knees were shaking and he couldn't seem to catch his breath. He didn't even try to hide his arousal and from the glazed look in Hayge's eyes, she was in much the same state. Mark tried to breathe evenly and thought bleakly that the attraction between them was as powerful now, in this least seductive of surroundings, as it had been nearly a year ago in the bedroom of his penthouse.

"You know we can't do this," Mark said, surprised at the husky tone of his own voice, horrified that it trembled a little. "I'm your . . . I mean, we can't do this."

"Remind me," Hayge said roughly. She was breathing hard, her face flushed and her eyes glittering. Her mouth was red and swollen and Mark closed his eyes so he couldn't see Hayge slowly rub the back of her hand across her lips. "I'm sure there are a dozen reasons," Hayge continued breathlessly, leaning closer. "Just - remind me why we can't do this. Give me the top three."

Abruptly Mark was angry again, furious that he was stepping away from the one thing that had given him honest pleasure in god knew how long. "I shouldn't have to give you even _one_," he said tightly. "C'mon, Hayge, you're smarter than this."

Hayge sucked in a deep breath and Mark waited for her furious retort with something like eagerness. He wanted to hear Hayge get angry. He realized with a far-off feeling of panic that he wanted Hayge to argue with him. He wanted Hayge to convince him that sex in the cold and dark warehouse of the Phoenix Press was the best idea either of them had had all week.

But Hayge let his breath go with a deep sigh, and with a feeling of near-despair Mark watched her turn away and bring a shaking hand to her forehead. "Oh god," he murmured quietly. His eyes were a huge, blurry brown. "Okay, you're right," she said, her voice gaining strength. "I'm, um. I'm really sorry, Mark. That was just, just stupid." Hayge squared her shoulders and took another deep breath, turning to face Mark with her face completely impassive except for the high flush across her cheekbones and down her neck, disappearing beneath the open neck of her shirt. Mark kept himself from looking lower with an effort that almost made him tremble. He cleared his throat and turned away.

"Okay, well. I guess we're done here?"

"Yeah," Hayge said slowly. "Yeah, I'll just double check that the boxes are closed and leave a note for the shipping guy."

Mark stared at the clock above the doors, aware of Hayge moving to the pallet behind him. "Do you want me to wait for you?" he asked stiffly. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth as he waited for Hayge to answer.

The silence was long and painful. "That's okay," said Hayge, subdued. "I'll just, uh, check this stuff and then I'll head out." She took a deep breath, let it out. "There's no need for you to wait."

Mark nodded firmly, still facing the door. "Okay then. Goodnight," he said and did not look back as he forced himself to walk away.


	7. Chapter 7

Hayge put the phone down, then sat very still in her office and tried to calm herself as her heart began to pound in double-time. It was okay. It was going to be okay. Everyone had setbacks; every project had its dark moments. If you kept moving forward, things usually worked out, no matter how bad it seemed.

But it was very hard to see how she was going to get out of this problem, how she was going to get Thomas Kearney, the author she'd been wooing for months, out of the clutches of Fitzgerald Random, the biggest, glossiest publishing house in New York.

"Damn," she said out loud, then bent forward to rest her forehead on her desk and squeezed her eyes shut. The one book she'd really wanted, the one project she'd been staking her department's financial hopes on, and now this: Kearney apologetically but kindly letting her know that he'd started contract negotiations with Fitzgerald Random. At least he'd had the decency to do that - some authors and their agents cut you off without a word, turned their backs on you and simply stopped taking your calls. At least Kearney had told her that he'd see her again, that they could talk further, and it was possible, Hayge guessed, that she could woo him back. Phoenix Press might not have the resources, money, or name recognition that Fitzgerald Random did, and they might not be able to offer even half the advance he'd get from FR, but she could still . . . she could still . . .

Oh god. It was a disaster, an absolute disaster. Hayge breathed in and out very slowly and tried not to shake, tried not to let the beginnings of panic stirring in her stomach spread and take over the rest of her. There had to be a way out of this. She'd find another author - she'd find another book - she'd -

Hayge stood up immediately to stop the bad thoughts, then headed straight for Rynan's office. Rynan would know what to do, and even if he didn't, he always managed to make Hayge feel better about things.

When she returned to her own office a few moments later, Hayge was feeling out of sorts and slightly shaken. Rynan had been kind - no surprise there - but he'd also been strangely . . . uninterested in the dilemma Hayge had put forth to him.

"You know, it might be best just to accept this and move on," Rynan had said. "There's just no way Phoenix Press can promote a book the way Fitzgerald Random can - we don't have the Marketing staff, we don't have the money, we don't have the resources. And if this author wants to be big, well, you see what I'm saying here. We probably can't even afford to print enough to meet the sales he's hoping for. I hate to be a bear about it, but it's probably not worth the fight to try to keep this guy."

"But I want the book!" Hayge had told him. "I need it for the list."

"Hayge," Rynan had sighed, "sometimes these things just don't work out. If I were you, I actually might take this as a lesson about the kinds of authors this press can and cannot get. If you continue to compete on the wrong playing field, you're never going to win."

As she thought about those words now, Hayge unhappily drew her brows together. Rynan was maybe right, and Hayge would take his advice into consideration in the future, but none of that changed the fact that Hayge needed Thomas Kearney's book now, this season, right away.

"Hayge, what are you doing?"

Her spirits sinking further, Hayge exhaled, raised her head, and looked into the sharp, curious face of Mark Salling as he stepped neatly inside her office, then stood leaning casually against the door jamb.

Oh god, Hayge thought as she realized that she was going to have to tell Mark about the Kearney situation. But if she could put up a good enough front, maybe that discussion didn't have to happen now.

"Bad day," Hayge said, running a hand through her hair and sitting back in her chair, trying for all she was worth not to appear as disheveled as she felt. Mark looked, as always, cool and elegant: today he had on a dark blue suit that fit him with almost sinful precision, and the white shirt he wore with it was crisp and lovely against his neck.

"Anything I can help you with?" Mark asked, and for a moment, Hayge longed to blurt it all out, to get counsel, to talk through this problem in detail with Mark, whose ability to reel people in and make them do what he wanted them to was so good it was almost scary.

But to do that would be to reveal himself as a failure - it would be utterly humiliating, and Hayge didn't want to go through it, didn't want to have to see pity or condescension on Mark's face. She needed Mark to believe in her, needed him to approve of her work.

"Thanks, but no. I'm fine, really." Hayge said it with all the confidence she could muster and tagged a smile on the end for good measure.

Mark looked skeptically at her, his glance eyes steady and unwavering. He was apparently going to wait it out until Hayge spoke.

"No, really, I just -" Hayge began, and then sighed, met Mark's clear, expectant gaze, and relented. "God. I just - I really fuc- messed something up, and I'm not sure how I'm going to fix it."

"All right," Mark said, and then, to Hayge's horror, came all the way into her office, shut the door behind him, and sat down on the chair across from her desk.

"Tell me what happened." Mark's voice was calm and nonjudgmental, completely without anger, but it left no question in the world that Hayge was going to reveal everything - and right now.

"It's Thomas Kearney." Hayge looked quickly down at her desk, then added, "You know, the guy I've wanted for my lead fall book, the one I've-"

"You're trying to sign him, yes," Mark interrupted. "I know that. I know your list. I know who you've been talking to."

"Right," Hayge said, trying to hide her amazement, because Mark didn't have to bother himself with every single book in every single department, and yet here Mark was, intimately familiar with her list, her responsibilities. It was a little overwhelming, and god, she didn't want to have this conversation; she absolutely did not want -

"Come on, Hayge," Mark encouraged, and although Hayge could tell from his voice that there was still no way she was going to get out of this, there was something softer about this request, something almost amused. "This is publishing, not brain surgery. There's nothing so horrible we can't fix it, as your supervisor showed us last month. If you've made a mistake, then I want to hear about it. The only way we can figure out how to avoid it happening again is by talking about it."

Hayge blinked in surprise. He'd expected Mark to go for the jugular, but the look on his face right now was open and patient. And he was absolutely right that it was necessary to talk about mistakes, but that didn't make any of this easier.

But she couldn't hide this forever - no matter what Hayge did, Mark was eventually going to know that she'd fucked up her negotiations with Thomas Kearney, and so the best thing probably really was to make a clean breast of it. Hayge looked uncertainly at Mark, took a deep breath, and plunged in.

"Okay, so yeah. Basically, I've been talking to him and I was pretty sure I had him; we were in end-stage negotiations and everything," Hayge said.

Mark sat back slightly in the chair, resting the ankle of one leg on the thigh of his other and watching her calmly, waiting. Hayge found it absolutely impossible to look him in the eye.

"And so I started to count on him. I put him in my win column, you know, and pretty much built the rest of my list around his book," Hayge said, feeling her face heat up, because when she said it out loud like this, the stupidity of that maneuver seemed more than apparent. "But then, see, he calls me today and tells me he's probably going to go with Fitzgerald Random - he tells me they've been talking to him a lot and I just - there's no way I can convince him not to do that - there's no way I can persuade him to stay with us. It seems pretty obvious to me."

"Are you saying that this press has no advantages over Fitzgerald Random?" Mark asked in disbelief, for the first time sounding a little bit angry. "Are you actually telling me that you think we have no chance of competing with them? You know better than that. You know there are ways we can fight back."

"Are there?" Hayge coughed and looked down, thinking of Rynan. "I don't know, Mark."

"Hayge, why are you working here?" Mark asked very slowly and very seriously. "Why did you choose to interview with us rather than Fitzgerald Random? Why did everyone here, for that matter, decide to work at a smaller house instead of going to the conglomerates?"

"Yeah," Hayge said as it dawned on her, and now she was embarrassed all over again. "There are reasons; we do do certain things better than they do."

"We do a hell of a lot of things better." Mark spoke fiercely and with absolute confidence, and he looked gorgeous, driven and intense and focused. "And you're going to tell that to Mr. Kearney - you're going to make a case for us, and I'm going make a case for us, and we'll both - we're going to come at him again and again until he sees the light."

Hayge nodded and tried to look convinced.

"You haven't lost the book, Hayge. It's not over yet. And as for the overall structure of your list and the place you gave his book in it . . ."

Hayge stared in horrified fascination at Mark, waiting for the blow to come.

"You took a gamble with that, and that's fine. Actually, that's more than fine - that's exactly what I want you to do, because if you don't stretch a bit, you're never going to get to the big things. I understand that absolutely."

"But . . ." Hayge supplied.

"But contingency plans are good too," Mark simply said, and shrugged. "And I'll bet you know that now." He gave Hayge an intense, pointed look.

"I, yeah. I'd have to say I do," Hayge replied, and ventured a small smile.

"So Thomas Kearney . . ." Mark began.

"Right, yeah. Okay. I -" Hayge pulled up the calendar on her computer. "I'll go see him tomorrow - I'll -"

"Actually, I think you should see him tonight."

Hayge raised eyebrows in surprise.

"There's a Fitzgerald Random party this evening - it's to showcase their new authors, and I've been invited," Mark told her. "And I want you to come, too; I want you to find this author and bring him to me. We'll talk to him and we'll pull him back, convince him that this press can do a lot more for his book than Fitzgerald Random will."

"Okay." Hayge felt tension building up in her again. A party with Mark - negotiating with an author in front of Mark. It was a nerve-racking scenario, but it would provide her with a chance to talk to Kearney. And if she thought carefully enough and hard enough, she could come up with a pitch so devastating that no one could resist it - certainly not Thomas Kearney. Maybe there was hope after all.

"I'm going to call my tailor and have him find something for you. It'll take a lunchtime fitting - would you be able to do that?"

"Your tailor?" The incredulity in Hayge's voice caused Mark's mouth to tighten, and Hayge silenced herself immediately. "Mark, no," she went on in a much quieter tone a second later. "I just - that doesn't sound like a good idea, and I don't think I -"

"C'mon," Mark said, trying to rally her. "It'll be fun, and Paul is a really neat guy. You'll like him."

"Mark, I can't accept that. I don't want to, and I -"

"Well you'll have to, because it's an order." Mark's voice was unyielding now, brooking no argument. He was obviously tired of this back and forth. "You will go at noon to Paul's and you'll be fitted for a nice dress. And then -" He paused and stared at Hayge, his eyes sharpening with amusement. "And then I'll show you how to talk nice, which fork to use, and how to eat fancy food."

"Oh come on, now," Hayge protested. "You've seen me at a fancy party before, and I behaved myself pretty well there, didn't I?"

As Mark lifted his eyebrows, staring at her first in surprise, and then with what appeared to be a steadily growing amusement, Hayge felt herself redden.

Hayge was now so tongue-tied that speaking was an effort. "I - yeah. Didn't mean that. I shouldn't have referred to - I -"

"I'm sure you'll behave yourself tonight. Don't worry about your book, Hayge - we'll get it back." Mark smiled faintly, then moved smoothly across the room to open Hayge's door. "My assistant will give you information about the tailor. Meet me in my office tonight at 7:30 and we'll go to the party from there."

"All right," Hayge said, and then shook her head in amazement as Mark left the office.

* * *

Hayge looked critically at herself in the bathroom mirror. She looked great - the dress fit wonderfully and she felt attractive, elegant, and in control. The curve that led down to her butt appeared to be a little too snug, but she felt confident in her appearance. And one wouldn't think these unbelievably pricey Prada high heels would feel comfortable, but they did, Hayge could account for that. It would be difficult to tell Mark, but he was quite grateful that he'd been sent to a tailor: there hadn't been time, of course, to fit the entire dress, but the adjustments Paul, who turned out to be gayer than the gayest man on earth, had made were more than evident, from the comfortable way that the dress hugged her waist to the sexy but decent slit though the skirt. Hayge widened her eyes at herself in the mirror, then allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. She was going to be just fine at this party.

As she walked through the dark hallway toward the light of Mark's office, Hayge bent her head for a moment and gave herself a strict talking to. She was going to be smooth and unruffled tonight, sophisticated and convincing. She was going to show Mark that she could move easily in this milieu, that she belonged at this sort of party, that Mark could trust her to negotiate with authors. She was going to be a success. Hayge bit her lips momentarily to seal the contract with herself, then moved to Mark's partially open door and knocked lightly.

"Come in," Mark said, and Hayge stepped in and took a deep breath as she caught Mark standing in front of the windows, his profile clear and lovely against the city scape.

"Hi," she said to fill the silence as Mark turned slowly to look at her, silvery brown eyes moving calmly up and down her body, her facial expression shuttered. Hayge sank teeth into her lower lip, then forced herself to speak. "So, do I pass?"

"You, uh," Mark said shortly, and then broke off, and Hayge suffered a series of agonies as Mark looked out the window for a few seconds before speaking again.

"It's great. You look really great, Hayge," he finally said, his voice a little strained.

"Thank you. And so do you, of course," Hayge said uncomfortably, because Mark was looking at her even more closely, frowning a bit now, and she wasn't for the life of her able to figure out what was wrong.

"You were right. Paul is a really nice guy," Hayge got out, and then took a couple of anxious steps backward, because now Mark was moving easily, confidently toward her, eyes fixed on Hayge, still frowning a little, his expression half amused and half determined.

"Uh -" Hayge tried again as Mark got closer yet, her mouth starting to dry out and her heart pounding a little bit quicker. "Uh, I -"

Mark was smiling... and moved so swiftly so that he was behind her, tying the ropes of her harlett dress which might have come undone without her noticing.

"There," Mark said softly, then placed hands on Hayge's shoulders and squeezed once, smiling at her in the mirror. "You're perfect."

Hayge swiftly turned around and took a deep, steadying breath. "No, I - it's you -" she began, then fell silent when Mark shook his head, a quick, curt movement of the chin, and then said, "Seriously, Hayge. You're beautiful," in a low, sincere voice that made Hayge's knees start to quiver.

"Thank you," was all Hayge could say out loud, but longing and regret swirled madly in her head. There were so many things she wanted for them, and all of it seemed so impossible.

"All right, then," Mark said, stepping back and heading for the desk to turn off his computer. "Let's go."

"Wow," Hayge said as they stepped into the showy lobby of the Fitzgerald Random publishing company and into the thick of the party. They had entered an atrium, and as she slowly lifted her head, Hayge could see the glass walls of countless offices overlooking it. They were quiet and dark now, but she could still tell that they were very large and very expensively equipped, far nicer than any of the offices in the Phoenix Press building.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Mark said with just a hint of disdain as they moved past showy brass fixtures and across a field of midnight blue carpet toward the cluster of well-dressed men and women talking and drinking together. It appeared to be the usual book crowd: employees of various houses, with Fitzgerald Random being best represented, of course; several of FR's more distinguished authors; and a coterie of reviewers Hayge was beginning to know by sight if not name.

"Um, yeah." Hayge nodded politely at a few familiar faces and then came to a stop with Mark and methodically scanned the room for Tom Kearney, tension rising in her as she did so. If she could not find the man, then this whole evening was for naught.

"Is he here?" Mark asked in a low voice just as Hayge caught sight of him.

"By the bar," Hayge breathed, greatly relieved, and then squared her shoulders. "Okay. I'm going over there to talk to him."

Suddenly there was a hand curved around her upper arm, fingers pressing lightly.

Mark's mouth quirked in amusement. "Wait a while, all right? Let him have a few drinks first. We want him in a receptive state."

Hayge laughed. "This is how you make all those high-powered corporate deals, isn't it?"

"Deals?" Mark looked questioningly at her, then caught himself. "Oh. At Antaeus, you mean."

"Yeah. Antaeus."

"You know, I don't recall actually ever speaking to you about my other job," Mark said in a soft, deadly voice.

Hayge drew in a sharp breath and tried to explain. "I know, but I just -"

"Nicholas," Mark broke in, looking pleased with himself for figuring it out. "Nick told you, right?"

"Well, Nick and the newspapers," Hayge said. "I mean, it's not exactly a secret that you've had this successful other life."

"Yes, well, none of that is really all that relevant here," Mark said, frowning, and then looked around the room again.

"I don't know - I mean, I think those skills might -"

"Do you know who Kearney's editor is?" Mark interrupted.

Hayge didn't have the slightest idea.

"I'm betting it'll be Robert Stackhouse," Mark went on, apparently not needing an answer. "We'll wait until Kearney talks to him, then move in."

"We?" Hayge said, unable to conceal the unhappiness in her voice. "Mark, I thought - I kind of hoped -"

"What, Hayge?" Mark's eyes were demanding even though his voice was patient.

"I wanted to do it myself," Hayge told him, mind working furiously as she built the argument. "I'm the one who's developed a relationship with Kearney, and I think I'm the best person to address him first. You - you can move in after I've had a bit of time with him."

Mark slowly released Hayge's arm, looking speculatively at her. "All right, but if you do that, then you take full responsibility for what happens here. Are you ready for that?"

"I'm ready," Hayge quickly said, in a much more confident voice than she actually had a right to. "He knows me and he likes me, and I'm sure I can -"

Mark still looked skeptical but he spoke politely. "You have a pitch planned? A speech?"

"Well, no. I mean, I've thought about it, I've got talking points, but I'm not - a canned speech or whatever won't work," Hayge said nervously.

"Okay, good," Mark said, and Hayge relaxed a little. Another test passed.

"All right, it's yours," Mark finally affirmed, then leaned forward slightly and added, "But again, Hayge, let me impress upon you the importance of this meeting. This is not a game, and this is not a casual conversation. We need this book for our list, and . . ."

"I know, I know, and we're not going to lose it." Hayge glanced over at Kearney again and then repeated the words silently to herself.

A woman with a tray full of champagne glasses approached them, smiling, and gave them drinks. Hayge took a swallow, ran it around on her tongue, then grimaced a little before swallowing.

"Definitely not as good as the stuff you -" she automatically began, and then broke off and felt her cheeks grow warm as next to him, Mark tensed a bit. What was wrong with her today? Why was she so compulsively returning to the very evening she and Mark could not discuss?

"I've had better, too," Mark mildly answered after a few agonizing seconds.

Suddenly the absurdity of it all made Hayge grin. "You know, I could maybe stop bringing up that night so much if you prefer."

"Why do that, especially when horrible awkwardness is so fun?" Mark teased, then grinned back, a real smile.

A few moments later, a reviewer approached Mark, someone old and eminent from the _New York Times Book Review, _someone whose name Hayge could not remember. When Mark introduced her as "one of my best new editors," Hayge had to consciously hold herself still, deliberately keep herself from squirming. It could not possibly have been true - the reason they were here at all was because that editor had fucked up - but it was good to hear it nonetheless.

The rest of that conversation was a blur to Hayge, and when an upper-level editor from FR also approached them, Hayge politely nodded and then slowly moved away to get another glass of champagne. As she drank it, Hayge watched Tom Kearney out of the corner of her eye: he looked ill at ease and a little overwhelmed. This was a showcase party for a number of FR authors, and Kearney, while important enough to be invited, obviously wasn't yet one of FR's more valued commodities. He had on an ill-fitting tuxedo, and he kept wringing his hands and nodding anxiously at the two very young editorial assistants, Hayge guessed, who had been assigned to talk to him.

It was not until Hayge had finished one more glass of champagne that a tall, thin man wearing very stylized glasses with heavy black frames approached Kearney. Hayge looked carefully at him, then darted a glance at Mark, who was now talking to someone from the _New York Review of Books,_ languidly, confidently gesturing and looking more handsome than any one man had the right to. Hayge willed him with all her might to look back, to exchange a glance, and then let out a small sigh of relief as she saw Mark look over at Tom Kearney and his companion. It was only then that he made eye contact with Hayge, a single, fierce look and a short nod. It was time to go in.

"Hayge!" Tom Kearney said as Hayge approached him, his voice full of what sounded suspiciously like relief. "How good to see you here."

"Hi, Tom," Hayge said, and gave him a winning grin, then looked expectantly at Robert Stackhouse, who rather unconvincingly and unwelcomingly said, "Oh, hi," without bothering to introduce himself.

"I'm Hayge Jimenez," Hayge said, reaching out a hand, and after a longish pause, Stackhouse slowly reached out to shake it, a proceeding Tom Kearney watched with some interest. Hayge knew from reading Kearney's manuscript and from their conversations that Kearney was absolutely intolerant of snobbery, and so she was sure to give Stackhouse a wide, friendly grin.

"This is quite. . . extravagant," Hayge carefully said, gesturing at the room and borrowing the restrained, vaguely disapproving tone he'd heard Mark use more than once in meetings. "Let me congratulate you on finding such a successful publisher, Tom."

"I - yes. I - well. I wanted to talk to you about that," Tom said guiltily. "I - our conversations - well. I was really pleased with all the attention you showed me, and I just -"

"It's fine, Tom," Hayge said good-naturedly. "I think authors should go with the publishers whose ideals and principles they most admire, and if Fitzgerald Random is in line with your beliefs about writing and publishing, then I'm very glad for you."

"What lovely sentiments," Robert Stackhouse said in a bored, unpleasant voice. "I'm afraid, however, that I'm going to have to leave you both. Mr. Kearnley, I'll catch up with you again before the evening is over," he said, and then nodded briefly at Hayge before sauntering off.

Mr. Kearnley. Mr. Kearnley indeed. Carefully controlling the urge to laugh in triumph, Hayge looked at Tom Kearney, grinned, and then quietly said, "You know, I'm sure he meant to say Kearney."

It was ridiculously easy after that point. When Hayge made a few offhand comments about small presses and the attention they could afford to devote to their authors, Kearney looked intrigued, and when Hayge spoke a little more intently about the incredibly high standards of Phoenix's in-house copyeditors and designers, he was downright interested. By the time Hayge told Kearney that his book would fit perfectly into the list at Phoenix and that it would be their lead title for next fall - not just one in a very big crowd - Kearney finally admitted that no, he hadn't quite yet signed a contract with Fitzgerald Random, and that yes, he would definitely be interested in negotiations with Hayge and Phoenix Press.

It was then that Mark joined them, with timing so perfect it was almost as if he'd been in on the conversation himself. Hayge smiled broadly and said, "Mark Salling, I'd like to introduce to you our newest author, Tom Kearney."

For a moment Mark gave Hayge an electrifying look, his eyes full of admiration and approval, and Hayge had a very difficult few seconds as she tried not to overreact, not to let her happiness overrun her.

"Welcome," Mark said warmly to Kearney, a devastating smile on his face, then shook his hand. It happened so fast that even later Hayge wasn't quite sure exactly how Mark had done it, but in less than ten minutes, he had somehow set up a meeting, started to negotiate an advance, and brought a surprised, flattered look to Tom Kearney's face, a look that did not dissipate for the rest of the evening. By the time Kearney left them, he was not only glad to be publishing with Phoenix Press, he was proud to be doing so.

"You handled that really, really well," Hayge said, and Mark smiled in pleasure. Clearly, triumph at work brought out the best in him.

"And so did you, apparently," Mark answered, then laughed out loud and very nearly bounced on his heels. "God, I love that - love reeling people in, love securing deals."

"I know," Hayge said a little wistfully, flashing back to their first meeting. She had been on the receiving end of a Mark Salling sales pitch herself.

Mark was still in form - Hayge could practically feel the confidence and energy emanating from her. She half expected Mark to prowl the room right now, plucking away Fitzgerald Random's authors one by one, and she was on the brink of suggesting that they mingle some more to that exact end when Mark leaned toward her and murmured, "So, should we go celebrate?"

Suddenly it was much too hot in the room, and Hayge dragged in a deep, ragged breath as she felt excitement start to spread through her. She opened her mouth to speak, met Mark's amused, expectant gaze, and then mumbled, "I'd like that a lot."

"Come on, then." Mark led her straight toward the exit, but right before they reached it, he paused, shook his head, and then laughed quietly to himself. "Just a minute," he said. "I think I'm going to go say goodbye to Robert Stackhouse first."

"Mark, you really -" Hayge began, but already Mark was striding away from her, graceful and confident. Hayge darted a few horrified glances at Mark and Robert Stackhouse as they spoke, wondering exactly how Mark was delivering the news. When Mark returned, Hayge shot him a questioning glance, but Mark only nodded, murmured, "Later," and then led Hayge out to catch a cab.

"Okay," Hayge said in the taxi as they headed . . . somewhere, she wasn't quite sure, but she certainly hoped it was Mark's apartment. "So what did you say to Stackhouse?"

"Hmm?" Mark asked distractedly.

"I said -"

"Oh, Stackhouse." Mark grinned to himself. "Nothing, really. I just asked him how he was, chatted him up."

Hayge frowned. "You didn't tell him? You didn't rub it in his face, what we did with Kearney?"

"Oh no," Mark softly said. "Robert will figure that out tomorrow."

"Jesus," Hayge said under her breath and looked out the window, because really, it was clever and cruel - when Stackhouse did realize what happened, he'd no doubt torture himself with the knowledge that Mark had known he'd fucked him over even as they'd shared meaningless small talk. It was strange, ruthless, and very Mark.

"Okay," Mark said as they pulled in front of an old stone building, then leaned forward and exchanged bills with the taxi driver.

"Mr. Salling," the doorman said in a welcoming and reverent voice as they approached the building. "Always a pleasure to have you here, sir."

Mark nodded at him, then lead a rather sheepish Hayge inside. This was obviously not Mark's apartment.

"Um, where are we?" she asked.

A look of surprise crossed Mark's face, but he quickly recovered and then said, "This is, er, a club I belong to. It'll be less crowded than anyplace else at this hour, so I thought -" He broke off, suddenly looking uncertain, and Hayge was fascinated. "I hope that's all right. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable, and -"

"Why would I feel uncomfortable?" Hayge asked, immediately starting to feel uncomfortable, because what Mark had just told her was that this was a posh, exclusive club that Hayge would never have gotten into on her own. Well, she was going in tonight, and she deserved to be in here just as much as everyone else, just as much as Mark, for that matter. Hayge slowly raised her chin and squared her shoulders.

As they walked through an elegant, understated foyer and past several more employees, each of them sang out greetings to Mark in the same voice the valet had used. By the time they reached the bar, Hayge's shoulders were tense.

Mark leaned over to have a murmured conversation with the bartender, then led Hayge through a room full of large, comfortable men in large, comfortable leather chairs and down a hallway lined with several closed doors.

"What's this?"

"Private room," Mark said, pulling out his keys and opening one of the doors, gesturing for Hayge to step in. She did, and for a moment stood completely still: the room was dark, and she wasn't sure where to step, how to move. He heard Mark moving behind her and took a deep breath, waiting anxiously for the warm slide of Mark's hands around her waist and a series of the maddening, teasing kisses she knew Mark was so adept at.

When the light flicked on, Hayge sagged a little in disappointment, then recovered and followed Mark across the room to a fireplace in front of which two more leather chairs were placed.

Mark gestured to a chair and politely waited for Hayge to sit down before joining her - he was treating Hayge very considerately, as a guest, and it was starting to freak her out. She glanced around the room, taking in the dark, polished wood and breathing in the comforting smell of leather and furniture polish. When she looked at Mark again, she caught her breath: Mark was watching her, his mouth curved in a half-smile.

"So how often do you come here?" she asked, coughing a bit to cover her uneasiness.

"I have lunch out in the main dining room with my grandfather twice a month when I'm in town," Mark said, stretching a bit, his shirt pulling enticingly against his torso. "But it can get noisy out there, and so I thought it might be nice for the two of us to talk in this room."

Hayge glanced around at the bookshelves, the large couch, and the paintings on the wall. It was a perfect place for intimate conversation, and who knew what else? Before Hayge could further indulge thoughts of this sort, a soft knock sounded at the door.

Hayge had to laugh when she saw the waiter making his way toward them with a bottle of champagne and two slender fluted glasses.

"You seemed to prefer good champagne, so I thought I'd make sure you had some." Mark poured Hayge a glassful, and then one for himself. "And beyond that, Hayge, seriously - I wanted to offer you congratulations and tell you how pleased I was with your work tonight."

"Oh," Hayge said. "Thank you," and then smiled weakly if gratefully as Mark lifted his glass to her. This was obviously not a come-on; this was Mark being a good boss, Mark rewarding a lower-level employee with a trip to the fancy club. Hayge wasn't sure whether to be furious or ashamed.

"Drink," Mark said expansively, and Hayge did so, drank far too quickly and gulped down the first glass before she knew what she was doing.

"You do like it," Mark said, amused, and poured Hayge another glass.

"One day I'm going to have bottles and bottles of this in my own house."

Mark grinned at her. "Keep going the way you are and that will definitely be the case."

"I - thank you. Really. It hasn't been - this transition - you in the office - not always easy, and -"

Mark laughed. "Stop it, okay? Just sit back and enjoy your drink."

And so Hayge did just that, finished a second glass in the middle of a conversation about the upcoming list and then a third one as she proudly told Mark about her conversation with Thomas Kearney. She lost track of whether Mark was following her drink for drink, but always, it seemed, there was more champagne, and she drank it down each and every time it was offered to her.

By the time their conversation had started to falter, Hayge was well and truly toasted, laughing too hard at everything Mark said and leaning forward in a ridiculous, embarrassing fashion, getting as close as she could to Mark without revealing what she was doing - she hoped. Mark was laughing too, talking quickly and sharply, funny as all hell, and for the millionth time Hayge rued deeply the fact that she worked with this man, that she could not move in on him the way she wanted to. He was smart, handsome as all hell, and oh yeah - so good in bed it made Hayge shiver to remember it. Mark Salling was the real thing.

But it was not to be, and so if she breathed in deeply to get a whiff of Mark's cologne or reached out and put a hand on Mark's arm a couple of times when they were laughing, Hayge was also very careful not to touch too long or to look too deeply into Mark's dark, inscrutable eyes. That way lay insanity.

"All right," Mark finally said, and slowly stood up. "This was fun, Hayge. I'm glad we had this chance to talk."

"Me too." Hayge reluctantly struggled to stand as well, not at all pleased with Mark for bringing the evening to a close so summarily. She chanced a look at her watch. Okay, so it was 11:30, but it still seemed too early for them to part. She hadn't had enough time with Mark.

"I'll call us a car," Mark said, then smiled and shook his head as Hayge stumbled a little behind him. "I hope you won't have a rough morning."

"Such good champagne," Hayge breathed and then paused to lean against the wall and looked happily at Mark, into his bright, amused eyes.

"And you look so good tonight," she continued in a low voice, not caring if it was too familiar, not caring if it was wrong. "So good, Mark."

"Thank you." Mark smiled and took a step toward Hayge, coming just a little closer than was appropriate, and Hayge felt her heart begin to thud against her rib cage. Mark was so beautiful it almost hurt to be near him.

"You look rather nice yourself," Mark offered, and Hayge sighed.

"God, Mark, I just - I look at you every day and it's so hard sometimes, you know?"

"What's hard?" Mark asked very quietly, looking intently at her, and Hayge straightened up a little bit, trying to read him, trying to figure out what the hell was going on in his mind, what might be possible. She flashed back to the warehouse, to the gentle slide of Mark's tongue, the urgent feel of his hands: that had been exquisite, so exquisite; the only wrong thing about it was the fact that it had ended too soon.

And here they were alone again, and Hayge thought Mark had a question in his eyes, a question Hayge knew he wouldn't let himself ask out loud, which was disappointing on many levels. But that didn't mean that Hayge couldn't still answer, did it?

"When I look at you," she said in a voice that told Mark it wasn't something she'd been planning to reveal, "I don't feel quite like myself."

"How so?" Mark asked in the same small voice.

"Well, technically speaking? I feel like a slut." Mark's mouth almost quirked into an amused smile before Hayge stopped him, "Seriously." Her voice was a mix of desperation and amusement. "And I'm not one, Mark." She added, her voice suddenly serious. "I'm not the type of girl who sleeps around and asks guys for their-"

"I know."

"You just... You have no idea how hard it is to be near you and not touch you," she finally said, even if she sounded borderline desperate, and like a slut, and felt triumph spread through her as she watched Mark flush a little.

"Actually, I think I do." Mark's voice was uneven now, so rough Hayge almost couldn't hear it, and he was moving closer again, wasn't he? He definitely was, Hayge thought deliriously as a rush of anticipation flooded her. She hesitated for just a moment, and then slowly, cautiously placed his hands on Mark's hips, gently easing him nearer.

"Hayge," Mark said in warning, but he didn't stop her, didn't do anything to prevent Hayge from leaning in closer and closer, from sniffing at his neck, from kissing the side of his clean-shaven face. Hayge was nearly trembling from the strain of moving so deliberately, from being so careful, but it was paying off, it was definitely paying off, she realized as she felt Mark slowly start to relax, to lean into her.

"I want to kiss you again," Hayge murmured into Mark's ear, then gently bit down on the earlobe and very nearly exploded with delight as she felt Mark tremble. From there it was a slow, sweet journey as Hayge moved delicately down to the soft skin under Mark's ear, then along the lovely curve of his jaw, murmuring quietly into Mark's warm, fragrant skin as Mark breathed even more quickly, as he moved his hands to Hayge's waist and gripped tightly.

Finally, Hayge was at the corner of Mark's mouth, and then, she was there, exactly where she'd longed to be, and Mark's lips were soft and welcoming against hers. Now it was Hayge's turn to tremble as well, because although they were barely touching, she was taut with desire, so full of longing that she wasn't quite sure how she was even managing to stand on her own.

When Hayge pressed gently at the crease of Mark's mouth with her tongue, Mark sighed and opened his mouth, let Hayge inside, and it was so perfect then that Hayge brought hands up to Mark's face, his neck, gently stroking his cheeks with her thumbs, cradling him as she deepened the kiss. He kissed Mark as skillfully as she knew how, and when she finally pulled back a bit, Mark's swollen mouth and wild eyes told her that she'd done well.

"This is so not - but you're driving me insane - you're -" Mark whispered huskily, and then leaned in to bring their mouths together again, and Hayge moaned in pleasure as Mark began to move his hands, running them hungrily, slowly over Hayge's back, then sliding to the front again to ever so gently stroke her breasts and over the warmth of her skin through the dress. Mark slid warm fingers over the base of her neck, to trace her collar bones with his thumbs, and then to start to follow the path his fingers had taken with his mouth.

Hayge tilted her head back into the wall and gulped for air as Mark licked a slow, hot line down the side of her neck, then reached out desperately and grabbed his shoulders, pulling him up again.

"Hayge," Mark breathed before kissing him again, and then murmured something hungry and hot and indecipherable as Hayge opened her legs and drew Mark closer, eased him into exactly the right spot and then shuddered delightedly against him as Mark began to slowly rock his hips forward, to bring them even closer together. It was so hot and so frustrating, intermittent flashes of perfect sensation followed by more slow, deep kissing, and Mark could probably keep this up all night, this gentle teasing alternating with slow, gradual trips to a much happier place. And Hayge would have been more than happy to do that were it not for the even more pressing need building in her, a need so strong and so fierce she was afraid it was going to swallow up the world if she didn't do something about it soon.

When Hayge slid her hand over the front of Mark's pants, he drew in his breath but then pressed forward eagerly, almost desperately, his mouth moving hungrily at the base of Hayge's neck as Hayge stroked him, his hands bracketing Hayge's hips like a vise. When Hayge murmured quietly to him, telling him how beautiful he was, how much she wanted him, how good she was going to make him feel, Mark gasped and moved even more frenziedly with her. It was so perfect, Mark straining into her, toward her, doing anything he could to get closer, and Hayge closed her eyes and felt perfect happiness taking over her. She had just moved her hand to the waist of Mark's pants, had just felt the muscles of Mark's abdomen move responsively against the back of her hand, when a knock on the door shocked both of them into immobility.

"Fuck!" Mark fiercely said and moved back so quickly that Hayge very nearly laughed as the door slowly began to open and their waiter came in once more. He seemed to know immediately that he'd interrupted something - and if Hayge's own face were as flushed and her own mouth as swollen as Mark's, Hayge could tell exactly why. They looked like a pair of guilty, love struck teenagers, and once again, Hayge felt an almost unbearable urge to laugh.

"Sorry, I, did you want more to drink?" the waiter haltingly asked, and Hayge almost felt pity for him as he watched Mark's eyes cut into him, as he saw the furious expression on his face.

"No thank you," he said curtly, "but we will need two cars, one for each of us. Knock again when they arrive."

The waiter disappeared with a final "yes sir," leaving Hayge and Mark alone once more.

"Two cars?" Hayge said softly, trying to hide the disappointment she felt. "Wouldn't one do just as well?"

"Two makes more sense since we're going to different parts of the city." Mark spoke quietly but firmly, and it was amazing, Hayge thought, amazing how quickly he snapped in and out of intense emotional states, amazing how calm and collected he now seemed when only five minutes ago he'd been rubbing heatedly into Hayge's hand, had been practically panting into her neck. Hayge frowned. Could he really have switched off just like that?

"Well, I think one would do." Hayge spoke as slowly and sweetly as she could, and Mark rewarded her by flushing slightly and shifting awkwardly from one foot to the next. "We're drunk, remember? Who's to say you couldn't take me to your place to sober up, and who's to say what might happen after that? I know I wouldn't remember it, and you - well, you could just push it out of your mind afterward, just like you always try to do."

Hayge very nearly smiled as he watched the struggle on Mark's face - he was somewhere between temptation and annoyance, and it was difficult to tell which was winning.

"I want you to believe me when I say that I'm very, very appreciative of your offer," Mark finally, carefully said after a long, electric pause, and Hayge felt an explosion of embarrassment and disappointment in her chest.

"But it's probably better that we not - that I not let myself lose control any further tonight," Mark finished up, and now he almost sounded miserable. "I can't - this behavior - I'm your boss, Hayge, and I need to leave you alone, need to be consistent with you."

Hayge rolled her eyes. "It's a little late for that, don't you think?"

Mark reddened even further. "Truly, I'm sorry. There's nothing more annoying than mixed messages, and I know I've been giving you a lot of them lately. But you just - you -" He broke off and sighed. "It's very hard, all right?"

"Look - it's not like I just asked you to marry me," Hayge said, feeling distant pleasure as she watched Mark flinch. "It's just - you're receptive and I'm receptive and we're both turned on, and I - we - it'll be so good, Mark, just like before, and so I don't see why we can't just -"

"I'm sorry, Hayge, but the answer is no," Mark calmly said.

"Jesus," Hayge spat out in disgust, then straightened up and began to rub against her dress for invisible splint, running fingers through her dark, long hair trying to compose herself and hide the hurt she felt. Mark had turned down everything she'd offered; Mark was trying as hard as he could not to want anything from her, was going to put all of his considerable energy and focus into making sure nothing could happen between them.

It was so, so infuriating. Hayge frowned and stared unhappily at him, and then made a silent promise to himself. Mark wasn't going to get away with that for much longer - not if he could help it.


	8. Chapter 8

"Hayge!" Rynan said, beckoning her into his office, his face breaking into a huge grin. "You're not gonna believe this, absolutely not -"

"What happened?" Hayge asked, stepping inside, clearing the chair of unread manuscripts, and taking a seat.

"My book - the one on the Chantilly codex, you know, the one by that assistant professor at UCLA? It just won the Bainton prize in musicology!" Rynan was obviously delighted, and the light of his smile seemed to fill the room. "And that's huge, Hayge - it's really huge, it's such a great, great honor."

"Hey, congratulations!" Hayge reached out to shake Rynan's hand and was pulled across the top of the desk into a quick, bear hug. It was impossible not to share Rynan's enthusiasm, impossible not to laugh and smile in response. "I don't know what the heck the Chantilly codex is, but that sounds really great, Rynan - really great. You brought us the right one, just like always."

It was true. Rynan's books might not have attracted many readers or much money, but they won all sorts of awards.

"Yeah," Rynan said in satisfaction. "See, I knew from the start, knew it even when I read the proposal that this was gonna be big. Sometimes it just clicks, you know?"

"For the right person it does, for the kind of person who knows what to look for." Hayge grinned again. "So is there a big cash prize or something? Do we get to take a trip to Hawaii?"

"Money?" Rynan asked incredulously. "Not hardly. I mean, she gets about five hundred bucks, but that's really not what this award is about. This is about honoring the scholarship."

"Well, that's fabulous," Hayge said, immediately dismissing her half-formed idea that they talk to Marketing about taking out a congratulatory ad in some trade papers. The award was honor enough in itself - who cared if the book didn't sell ten thousand copies?

"God, I needed this." Rynan leaned back in his chair and sighed. "I don't know if you've noticed, Hayge, but it's been a little rough for me around here lately."

"I, yeah. Yeah." Hayge wasn't quite sure how to respond.

"I mean, what with Jackass Salling roaming the halls looking for every opportunity he gets to yell at me about ISBN numbers and money, I'd actually almost started to hate coming to work." Rynan looked utterly miserable.

"Hey," Hayge said as an uncomfortable mixture of sympathy for Rynan and loyalty to Mark filled her mind. "You're - it's gonna be okay, Rynan, I know it is. Just - do what you do best and the rest will work itself out. I know it will."

"Yeah." Rynan shook his head. "You know, I don't know if I ever told you how sorry I am about you getting stuck in the warehouse fixing that ISBN thing. That day was just - well, I had to get out of here early, had to pick up my nephew at daycare and get some groceries for dinner, and so I took off, I just took off. I really wish I wouldn't have."

"Don't say another word about it." Hayge said, then fell silent as she flashed back to Mark's angry words in the warehouse. "But Rynan, do remember to show that stuff to me when cover comps come by, okay? Cause if I don't see it, then I can't catch it, and if I don't do that, then Mark comes down on both of us."

"Right, yeah," Rynan said absently, and then laughed out loud. "The Bainton prize! That really makes my day. I oughta - hey - you wanna come over for dinner tonight, maybe celebrate a little bit with me and Belle?"

"I'd love to, but I -" Hayge paused. How to tell Rynan that she needed to be at work instead - that actually, both of them should be? "I kind of have some things to get done - you know. What with the formal list-setting meeting coming up and all."

"Oh," Rynan said, and laughed. "Right. Forgot about how much you obsess over those meetings."

Hayge spoke very carefully. "You, uh. You've got your books, right? And your manuscripts are in house? I think . . . I think Mark's going to expect a lot from us at this meeting. He really wants to get a good sense of what'll end up on the list."

"You worry too much, Hayge - always have." Rynan grinned at her. "I'll be just fine."

"Yeah," Hayge said, less than convinced.

"And anyway, even if you do work late, I still don't see why you can't have dinner with us," Rynan added. "I know you're not stupid enough to stay here past eight, so why don't you show up at my place between then and eight thirty? C'mon - you know how much my brothers like you, and Belle, of course, will want to hear all about your exciting love life."

Love life? It had been a while ago now, but Hayge still thought of kissing Mark in the private room at the club, of Mark's hands on her, of how incredible it had been to be close to him again. It seemed that Mark knew almost by instinct exactly how to touch her, knew exactly what Hayge needed, and Hayge was beginning to figure out the same about Mark. Hayge longed to try it all over again, to see what else she could learn.

"Uh," she said tentatively, her capacity for logical thought having left her.

Rynan laughed. "I'm kidding you - you know I am. But come, all right? It'll be lots of fun, I promise."

Hayge grinned. "You know, I think I will," she said. "I need to relax, need to get away from this place, need to stop thinking so much about work." She needed to stop thinking so much about Mark, too.

"Exactly." Rynan's voice was full of satisfaction as he turned to his phone. "Let me just call Belle to confirm, and I'll get back to you later on."

"Great - that's really great." As Hayge got up to leave, a surge of affection for Rynan filled hed. No matter what anyone thought, Rynan was a great guy - and an asset to the press.

As she walked back to her office, Hayge noticed Mark descending the last few steps of the spiral staircase, his eyes narrowed and his mouth in a thin, grim line. He looked furious, and for a moment Hayge considered trying to get away from him altogether, to avoid any sort of contact, because judging from the look on his face, no conversation with him at this point could possibly be good. It was too late to escape without being obvious, though, so Hayge steeled herself and waited calmly for the encounter. Hayge was breathing shallowly by the time the two of them came face to face.

"Hey," Hayge quietly offered.

Mark didn't bother to return the greeting. "He's in there, right?" he calmly asked, inclining his head toward Rynan's office.

By now Hayge knew Mark well enough to know that he used that eerily controlled voice only when he was very, very angry about something, and as she answered, anxiety seized her. "Um, yeah, he is. He's actually - one of his books just won a big award today. It's really, really good news."

"Really? How nice." Mark's voice was almost completely devoid of interest as he briskly moved on, coming to Rynan's door, knocking once, and then saying, "Hi, Rynan. Let's talk," before firmly closing it behind him.

Hayge moved on unsteady legs back to her office and sat uncertainly at her computer, fretting. Could Rynan have made another big mistake? Was there anything new that might have been messed up? In a panic, Hayge checked her e-mails from the warehouse indicating which new shipments had arrived - no problems there. Then she looked carefully at her calendar: could a meeting have been missed? Was there something the music department should have had done? Nothing presented itself here, either, and Hayge sat back and brooded, her mind working overtime as she puzzled it over.

When Hayge realized she wasn't going to be able to figure out what was going on, she felt awful, but there wasn't anything she could do about it now. With a sigh, she turned to some readers' reports she'd just received for a manuscript she was interested in and started to compose a letter to the author about them. It was a complicated manuscript on jazz and heroin use, and the reviews had been sharply divided. Time got away from her as she tried to sort it all out, and when she looked up again, more than half an hour had passed since Mark had first entered Rynan's office. Surely they had to be done by now.

Hayge slowly got up and headed down the hallway only to find that the door to Rynan's office was still shut. After surreptitiously looking up and down the hallway to make sure she was alone, Hayge peered carefully through the long, narrow strip of glass at the side of the door, and then inhaled sharply as she locked glances with Mark - Mark, who was just about to leave the office. The door swung open too quickly for Hayge to move away, and then Mark was looking closely, curiously at her, his eyes keen. Further back in the room, Rynan was slamming things around, his face red and his gestures angry and careless.

"Is there something I can help you with?" Mark asked pointedly, and Hayge very nearly groaned out loud. She could not possibly have had worse timing.

"No, I - I'm just here to see Rynan," she faltered.

"Rynan's busy right now," Mark told her. "I think you'd better come back later."

"Right," Hayge said as the tension in her grew, and then hurried away from Mark, away from Rynan, and toward the kitchen. Once there, she grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, twisted it open, then tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and took several deep swallows. When she was finished, she lowered her head and gasped, trying to collect herself, and then slowly lifted her eyes to see Mark watching her from the doorway of the kitchen.

"You all right?" Mark carefully asked, and Hayge felt herself becoming flustered, and then got angry with herself because of that. And for that matter, she was angry at Mark, too.

"Yeah, really great, Mark. I've got so much to do I can hardly see straight, and you're breathing down my boss's neck and making his life hell. What could possibly be better?"

"Well, for one thing your director could tell you that it's inappropriate for you to speculate about his dealings with other employees," Mark said lightning quick, his voice sharp.

"C'mon, Mark," Hayge said. "He's a great editor - if you'd just let yourself see it, you'd realize exactly how significant his contributions to this place have been. And I don't know what's gone on between the two of you, but if you'd just talk it out -"

Mark took three steps across the room until he was standing very close to Hayge, and then spoke in a low, dangerous tone. "Since you don't seem to be getting it, let me reinforce my point. It's none of your business what I talk to Rynan about, none of your business how I choose to conduct myself with any other employee here. You need to step back, Hayge."

"Okay, you're right about that," Hayge said immediately, because Mark was, and then tried not to flinch as Mark continued to glare at her. "But I still think -"

"Hayge," Mark warned, and then Hayge took a few steps back in a literal sense.

"I just wish you'd be a little nicer to him," Hayge miserably said, giving up entirely on official business speak. "That's all."

Mark looked hard at her for a moment, then spoke in an equally quiet voice. "Look - I know this means a lot to you, and I respect that, but again, this simply isn't a conversation we can have. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."

"Okay, yeah," Hayge admitted, and lowered her head, staring unhappily at the floor. Why was everything such a damn mess?

"Look - I'll see you later," Mark said, and when Hayge lifted her head to wave goodbye at him, she was treated to a steady, curious, almost puzzled gaze, which was more than a little unsettling. Mark probably thought she was the most unprofessional person on the planet.

"Bye," Hayge said, and then tried - and failed - not to watch Mark as he walked away from her.

"Hey," Rynan said later in the day, knocking once on Hayge's half-open door and stepping into her office. "Would it be all right if we rescheduled our dinner for another time? There's some stuff I suddenly need to get finished, and I -"

"Yeah," Hayge said. "That's perfectly all right, absolutely."

"Thanks, Hayge." Rynan gave him a tired smile.

"Um. This stuff you have to get done. Do you want any help with it?"

Rynan laughed to himself, shaking his head. "You know, Hayge, I probably could use some, but I seem to have been instructed not to consult with you on this, so I guess I'll be flying solo."

"Oh." Hayge was annoyed with Mark all over again. "Look - I'm really sorry. Whatever happened between you two, I -"

"It's got absolutely nothing to do with you, Hayge, so don't even worry about it." Rynan leaned over the desk, looked seriously and earnestly at Hayge. "And listen to me, because I mean this: I need you - I want you to have a good working relationship with Salling no matter what, all right? The very worst thing that could happen here would be for my disagreements with him to affect you or your career."

"Oh Rynan, it's not - I won't -" Hayge guiltily began, then shut up as Rynan waved for her to be quiet.

"All right, I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

Rynan was leaving already? Hayge took a deep breath and tried very, very had not to look at the clock on the wall. "I, uh. You're leaving now?"

Rynan sighed. "I'm gonna work at home for a while. I just - I can't stand to be in this place one minute longer."

"Okay," Hayge murmured, and felt awful all over again. "Look - tomorrow'll be better, okay?"

"It had damn well better be," Rynan said, and then slowly ambled off.

Friday morning Hayge pulled her glasses off and rubbed her eyes tiredly. This manuscript - well, it wasn't crap, exactly, but the manuscript editorial department was going to have a conniption fit when they saw it. It was a good, solid book, but wow, it was going to need a lot of work if it was going to be ready for the fall list. And the author, she thought morosely, was the biggest, most high-maintenance pain in the ass she'd ever met.

She stood up and stretched long and hard, sighing as she felt her back creak. The manuscript and its author were giving her a headache. She needed caffeine.

After sitting at her desk hunched over her work all morning she was glad to take a walk to the kitchen. Hayge paused to speak to her assistant and offered to bring him a soda, then headed down the long hallway.

She hadn't gone far when Nicholas exploded out of a side hallway and fell into step beside her. "Ms. Hayge Jimenez. Precisely the woman I was looking for." Nicholas's tone was rich with satisfaction and Hayge eyed him suspiciously as she mentally raced through everything she owed the art department, looking for something she'd missed.

"Don't even try to scare me," she finally said with as much confidence as she could muster. "I'm all caught up."

"Hayge," Nicholas said with mock pain. "You seem to think that the only time I come looking for you is when I want to bust your tits about something. I'm hurt."

"Oh, like I should trust you," Hayge said sarcastically, although it was impossible not to smile. "Why are you looking for me, then?"

They turned a corner, walking down a long hall that led past the conference room. Hayge glanced over the teeming activity and cubicle walls and into the conference room window as they approached, and then almost tripped over her own feet as she looked directly into Mark's sharp, brown eyes. He was in a meeting full of strangers but watching Hayge intently through the glass from his position at the head of the table, and something about the look in his eyes made Hayge gulp hard and flush with heat. The bustle of the press and Nicholas's voice faded away. Hayge managed to keep moving forward, but for a long, breathless moment she was unable to tear her eyes away from Mark's.

Mark tightened his lips into a thin, tense line and directed his eyes back to the speaker, just as Nicholas's hand on her elbow jerked Hayge back to herself. She realized with horror that she had narrowly missed knocking herself unconscious by walking into an open door.

She swore, and heaved a deep breath over Nicholas's laughter. Just that morning Hayge had given herself a stern lecture as a result of a stupid, foolish daydream about Mark, and the realization that she'd had far too many of those since the night of the Fitzgerald Random party.

She simply had to get a grip, Hayge told herself. She had to stop losing her mind every time she looked at Mark. It was time to get over this stupid crush and move the fuck on. Jesus.

" . . . and really, I thought you'd be pleased about it, not try to commit suicide right here in the hallway," Nicholas was saying, and Hayge tuned in with a start as they entered the kitchen.

"I'm sorry, Nick, I totally missed that. What were you saying?"

Nicholas eyed her carefully, his dark eyes dancing with mischief. "Well, shit, Hayge. I've been talking pretty much nonstop all the way down the hall," he informed her. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Hayge reached into the refrigerator and grabbed a can of soda. She opened it, eyeing Nicholas cautiously. The last time Nicholas had ambushed her in the press's kitchen she'd ended up with diet soda all over the front of her favorite green shirt. "Uh, the last thing I remember was wondering why you'd come looking for me." She took a long and grateful gulp from the cold can. Her throat was dry. "And if I'd missed a deadline or something."

Nicholas nodded with mock seriousness. "Wow, okay. So you missed, like, everything I said. Good to know that you care so much about what the art department has to contribute to your list, Hayge. Makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside."

Hayge blinked at him, but Nicholas didn't appear to be really upset. In fact, he was grinning and rubbing his hands together in a pleased way. "Sorry," Hayge said, taking another can of soda for his assistant and offering one to Nicholas with a raised eyebrow. "I was sort of . . ."

"Distracted," Nicholas supplied helpfully, and laughed out loud when Hayge sighed and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I noticed that. But seriously Hayge - and believe me, this is a topic of great seriousness - my real reason for seeking you out is to ask you about the game."

Hayge was suddenly alert. Basketball was certainly a serious topic. "You mean the playoff game tonight," she said, and added loftily, "the one the Lakers are going to win."

Nicholas burst into a delighted grin. "That's exactly what I was hoping you were going to say," he said. "Because we're going to the game tonight, and there's an extra ticket. For you." He waggled his eyebrows and his grin, if anything, grew. "Courtside."

Hayge gaped at him for a moment. "No fucking way," she breathed reverently. Courtside tickets for a playoff basketball game, for the game that had been sold out forever, for the game that was making scalpers rich. She felt exultation start to rise; then her face fell.

"Oh god," she said regretfully. "I wish I could, Nicholas, I really do, but I just don't have that kind of money. Especially at this time of the month. There's no way I can afford a ticket like this."

"No worries," Nicholas said cheerfully. "Mark's brother got stuck in Paris or something, and can't make it, so we have an extra. It won't cost you anything."

Hayge froze at the mention of Mark's name, the can of soda lifted halfway to her mouth as Nicholas watched her with an almost unholy glee. "Center court, Hayge," he said slyly. "Best seats in the house." He smirked evilly. "Unless you'd rather, you know, watch it on television with the rest of the civilized world."

"No!" Hayge exclaimed. "No, it's just, are you sure it's okay? I mean, I can't believe Mark doesn't have someone else that he'd rather give the ticket to."

Nicholas shrugged. "Who cares? Mark gets his own way far too often as it is. I want to sit with someone who's going to be rooting for the proper team."

"Well, if you're sure he won't mind," Hayge said slowly. She set his soda down on the counter; her hand was shaking as her mind stuttered and raced.

This was not a good idea. Hayge replayed the almost dismayed expression in Mark's eyes and the way he had trembled against Hayge's hands in the dim, quiet elegance of the club's private room, and started to feel something curiously like guilt. It seemed that it might be getting increasingly difficult for Mark to be around her, and almost against her will Hayge felt sympathy stir. Yes, she felt frustration and irritation and a desire that simmered constantly and sparked to life every time Hayge thought about Mark, but there was also empathy, and oddly enough, respect. Mark was exerting his considerable will toward not getting involved with Hayge. He'd decided that doing such a thing would be wrong, and as much as Hayge didn't like it, she had to admit that Mark had a point. Sleeping with a co-worker - much less a boss - was never a smart idea.

She should not accept this ticket. She really shouldn't, but the thought of going to such an event with Mark - a sporting event outside the realm of work - was far too seductive to pass up. Hayge gulped hard and forced her voice to work. "If you're sure, I'd . . . Oh hell. Nick," she said as the excitement bloomed in her stomach and burst out in a huge grin. "You know I'd love to go. I mean, god, the playoffs."

Nicholas's grin was just as big. "Well, then, consider it done. Game's at eight-thirty but traffic is going to be a bitch, so we'll leave from here, right?" He slapped Hayge's butt and headed for the door of the kitchen. "Courtsiiiiiiide," he sang over his shoulder, and disappeared down the hall.

Left alone, Hayge slid on to a stool and leaned against the counter for a moment. The game, a playoff game, best seats in the house and oh my _god_ sitting there beside Mark. Just as her sympathy for the situation Mark was in had overcome her frustration and determination. Just as she'd given it all up as a hopeless cause. The timing couldn't be worse, but nevertheless excitement sang through her body. It sounded like heaven. It also sounded like hell. Jesus, could she handle this?

She took a deep breath and picked up her soda cans, heading back to her office. Of course you can handle it, she told himself sternly. It's the hottest ticket in town, the best seats in the house, and you're going to be there watching instead of sitting in front of a television. There, with Mark, she thought, and felt another dismaying flush of heat as she remembered the last time they'd been alone together. The night of the Fitzgerald Random party. The night of the private room at the club.

But that particular encounter had been an aberration, brought on by alcohol and unique circumstances. And although Mark had been receptive at the time (more than receptive, Hayge thought, and shivered again), since that night he had treated Hayge with the same polite and impersonal detachment he used with everyone else. Things were different now, she told herself firmly. And yes, considering the fact that they were working together, that was for the best.

And it really was a shame, but sometimes that was just the way things worked out. Sure, Mark was hot. Criminally hot. Painfully, excruciatingly sexy with his lean body and sharp brown eyes and the way his face crinkled up when he smiled for real. But Mark was also a repressed, cold-hearted bastard, capable of turning off his emotions with ruthless efficiency. In all seriousness, Hayge really didn't want to get involved with someone like that. Despite the overwhelming attraction Hayge felt for Mark and his near-certainty that on some level it was returned, it wasn't going to happen.

All she had to do, she thought with a wry smile, was to keep away from the alcohol tonight, and do what she could to keep from launching herself at Mark again if they happened to find themselves alone. Which wouldn't be likely, not in an arena packed to the gills with sports fans. Self-control, Hayge reminded herself firmly. She could do this, she could totally do this.

Hayge automatically took the long way back to her office to keep from once more passing the conference room where Mark was holding his meeting. Then she realized what she was doing and sighed with irritation. This is ridiculous, she told herself. Get back to your office and do your work. Think about basketball. Stop obsessing about the man. Almost defiantly she reversed direction and walked down the main hallway, head high.

But the conference room was now empty and Hayge paused for a moment, chewing her lip. Did Mark even know that Nicholas had invited her, or that he had promised Hayge the ticket meant for Mark's brother? Nicholas was capricious and volatile and sometimes forgetful; Mark might have no idea that he'd even invited Hayge to the game. And, Hayge admitted to herself, given the way their last private encounter had gone, it was more than possible that Mark wouldn't be all that pleased about it. It would be really unfair not to let him know, not to give Mark the opportunity to refuse.

Before she could change her mind, Hayge reversed direction again and jogged up the spiral stairs to the executive level. Mark's assistant was not at his desk, but Mark's door was ajar and Hayge peered in before tapping quietly.

"Come in," Mark said absently. He didn't look up as Hayge edged through the doorway and hesitated there. "One moment," he muttered, his attention on the papers in front of him, and Hayge took that moment to study him closely.

His jacket was off, but his shirt was unwrinkled and pristine, his tie neatly knotted, his hair strictly in place. She fucking loved Mark's hair, remembered the tinkling fuzz of it in her fingers, against her face, her chest, her belly, remembered Mark shaking sweaty strands from her face when he was naked and braced over Hayge on his bed, moving deep inside Hayge's body, the way his eyes slid closed as he sank his teeth into that full lower lip and fought for control while Hayge had writhed and begged beneath him . . .

"Hayge?" Mark's voice was perfectly businesslike and polite but as Hayge stared blankly at him there was something in the depths of those eyes that said he knew exactly where Hayge's thoughts had been just a moment before. He glanced at the two soda cans in Hayge's hands and his eyebrows went up a little. "Is one of those for me?"

Hayge looked blankly at the cans in his hand and shook his head. "Oh. No, I was just on my way . . ." She set them down on the credenza and wiped the condensation from her hands. Mark watched her curiously.

"Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yes," Hayge answered immediately. "I mean, no. I mean, I just wanted to make sure . . ." Mark's lips were twitching just the slightest bit and Hayge stopped and took a deep breath, rolling her eyes. "Jesus," she muttered. "Okay, what I wanted to say was that I just ran into Nicholas in the hallway, and he offered me your extra ticket to the game tonight." She paused as Mark's eyebrows went up and he slowly set his pen down, leaning back in his chair. "I just, you know, wanted to make sure you knew. That he invited me."

"I didn't," Mark said simply and Hayge hid her arms behind her, hands sweating.

"I didn't think you did," she muttered, and took a deep breath. "You know," she continued, dropping her voice. "If you'd prefer I not accept that ticket, I totally would understa . . ."

"Do you like basketball, Hayge?" Mark asked with interest, his eyes focused intently on Hayge's face. She tried not to squirm under his regard.

"I do," she replied. "Um, a lot. Really, really a lot."

"Really."

Hayge nodded silently, unable to trust her voice.

"I would bet that you're a big Lakers fan," Mark finished up and now he was grinning, the real one, the one that made his face light up and his eyes squint. "Nicholas wouldn't have invited you if you weren't."

"Since I was a little girl," Hayge agreed, and found herself smiling as Mark laughed.

"Well, it'll be an interesting game, then," Mark said slyly. "I come from three generations of die-hard Knickers fans, so we'll just have to see how this goes."

Hayge's heart felt immensely lighter than it had when she'd entered Mark's office. For a moment all her carefully marshaled defenses trembled and she almost felt dizzy - Mark wasn't unhappy that Hayge would be coming to the game with them; he wasn't looking for a way to avoid it. Mark wasn't holding the Rynan incidents against her, and he wasn't trying to avoid her, Hayge thought as anticipation started to sparkle through her body.

Relief and excitement made her reckless. "So, I was thinking," Hayge started, and then paused to take a quick, deep breath. "I'm really grateful for the ticket, first of all. Thank you so much."

"Thank Nicholas," Mark suggested, still smiling lazily at Hayge in a way that made her palms sweat. "He's the one who invited you."

"I will. I did," Hayge said, and now Mark was looking at her very, very intently and Hayge fought not to fidget. "I was wondering if you'd like to have dinner first," she said almost formally, and watched Mark's eyes sharpen. "To thank you for the ticket," she added hastily. "And, also, I kind of owe you a dinner."

There was a brief silence as they stared at each other. "You don't owe me a thing, Hayge," Mark finally said in a low and silky voice that sent fissions of sensation down Hayge's spine. "But how very nice of you to offer."

Against all her better judgments, she suddenly wanted this so badly she could taste it, and if it meant flirting a little bit, well, two could play that game. She shifted her weight and cocked a hip, and was rewarded as she caught Mark's eyes moving rapidly down her body and up again. "I'm going to have to insist," she said politely, looking directly into Mark's eyes and trying her best smile. "I do owe you a dinner, and the ticket to the game, well, that's just too kind." She smiled wider and felt a cautious triumph when she saw Mark take a quick breath and blink rapidly. "Wherever you - and Nick - want to go. What do you say?"

Mark rose slowly from his chair and stepped easily around until he was standing in front of the desk, face to face with Hayge. He leaned back against the desk and braced his arms against it. Hayge's breath hitched and her eyes slid involuntarily down the lean length of Mark's body, the cream colored shirt, the perfectly fitted slacks, the leather belt. He was suddenly so close, almost close enough to reach out and touch and Hayge's hands were sweating and god, had she really just been thinking that two could play this game? She was so fucking out of his league. She gulped desperately as Mark shifted his weight and smiled at her.

"I think it'll just be you and I, Hayge," he said, his voice very quiet. "Nicholas has some stuff he has to finish up here, and he's planning on going directly to the arena." He cocked his head, his eyes bright on Hayge's face. "Of course, if that's a problem in any way . . ."

She would not blush, Hayge told herself firmly. She absolutely would not. "Of course not," she replied easily, although her mouth felt as dry as the Sahara. "Where do you want to go?"

Mark shrugged and Hayge was gratified to see him a little at a loss. "You know, it's really not necessary for you to buy dinner. We could just get hot dogs at the arena," Mark suggested.

Hayge eyed him levelly. "Please. As if you would eat hot dogs for dinner," she repeated flatly. "Do not insult me."

Mark smiled at her, acknowledging the point. "Okay then. There's an Italian place just a couple of blocks from the arena. Nothing too fancy, so we won't be overdressed for the game. How does that sound?"

Hayge released a breath she didn't even realize she'd been holding, and nodded with relief and what felt suspiciously like triumph. "That sounds good," she said, and smiled again. "What time are we leaving?"

Mark glanced at his watch. "Let's leave early. Traffic across town will be awful," he mused. "How about 5:00?"

"I'll meet you in the lobby," Hayge said, and with what she hoped was a casual and friendly nod, she grabbed her soda cans and made her exit. She felt Mark's eyes on her back all the way to the door.

Hayge took a long lunch and grabbed a cab for a lightning trip home. She needed a change of clothes - her neat getup was fine for the office, but she felt very overdressed for a casual dinner and a basketball game. As she pawed frantically through her closet she was aware that she was far too concerned about what she was going to wear, and she scolded herself for thinking of this evening like a date. It was not a date, no matter how Mark looked at her, no matter how silky and suggestive his voice could be.

The important thing to remember, Hayge reminded herself for the hundredth time as she considered and discarded clothing, was that Mark was a natural tease. Mark flirted without even _realizing_ it most of the time, and it was essential that Hayge accept that it wasn't anything personal. They worked together, they sometimes ran into each other in the park on Saturday mornings, they both liked basketball. They could be friends, they could have dinner and watch a game and enjoy themselves without both of them worrying about whether or not Hayge was going to be able to keep her hands to herself. It shouldn't even be an issue.

Still, she couldn't keep herself from feeling pleased as she tossed a sexy pair of jeans and a thin black sweater into a zippered gym bag. She knew she looked good in these clothes, and she was going to be able to pull it off without looking like she'd made any sort of special effort to do so. Perfect.

Later that evening Hayge stepped outside the restaurant and took a long, slow, deep breath. She felt over-adrenalized, confusion and restraint battling with excitement, and the looming basketball playoff game wasn't the only cause. No, the cause was the man walking out of the restaurant beside her. Hayge glanced at Mark as they fell into step and began the short walk to the arena, just in time to see Mark glance quickly away, a small smile on his lips. Hayge's heart thudded painfully in her chest and she took another deep breath, dragging her eyes away only with effort.

* * *

Hayge had arrived in the lobby at five minutes to 5:00 and found Mark already there and waiting for her. She'd changed into casual clothing as well, and the sight of Mark in jeans and a dark blue shirt that made his eyes startlingly bright caused Hayge to sigh in helpless appreciation as she'd crossed the lobby. Mark's smile had been almost as bright as his eyes; he was obviously in a fine mood. Mark, Hayge decided, must be quite a basketball fan.

Hayge had assumed that they would take a taxi and she'd hesitated when Mark had indicated the chauffeured black Suburban double-parked at the curb outside of the building. "I don't want to hassle with the traffic," Mark had said without apology, "and this way we won't have to deal with trying to get a cab after the game."

A cab, Mark had said. Not cabs, but a cab. And it probably didn't mean a thing, but he'd said it in a low and lazy tone that had caused fire to lick up and down Hayge's spine, and supplied a rush of disjointed mental images, most of which included Mark naked and with his hands and gorgeous mouth all over Hayge's body. Jesus, how did he do that? Without even trying? Hayge took a deep breath and sighed in resignation.

She'd composed herself as she'd nodded nonchalantly and slid into the vehicle. She'd tried to distract herself by wondering what keeping a car and driver like this at one's beck and call actually cost, but then Mark slid into the backseat beside her with a brilliant smile. His eyes flickered over Hayge's form with a rueful sort of admiration and as Hayge grinned back she impulsively decided that just for tonight she was not going to worry about the fact that Mark was her boss. Even though this was most emphatically not a date, she was going to have dinner and see a playoff game in the company of the most compelling man she'd ever met, and she was going to enjoy herself.

And she was, she thought with a smile as she and Mark negotiated the crowded sidewalks outside Madison Square Garden. Dinner had been at a small restaurant discreetly tucked into a side street. It hadn't looked too imposing from the outside, but inside it was exquisite: small, private tables, intimate lighting. And then Mark had picked up the wine list, perusing it with what could only have been termed a purr of anticipation. The wine had been amazing and the food excellent; the manicotti had melted in her mouth and Mark had spoken highly of his cannelloni. Without a doubt it was the best Italian food that Hayge had tasted in New York City.

And Mark had been a perfect dinner companion, lounging a little in his chair between courses, utterly at ease as he'd asked Hayge's opinion on basketball in general and the upcoming game in particular. He'd laughed, and smiled, and leaned forward and made eye contact in ways that had set Hayge blinking like a lost little idiot. He'd asked interested questions about Hayge's childhood. And Mark had been relaxed when Hayge had countered these questions with her own, describing his teenage years at the very exclusive boarding school, how he'd given up most sports by his sophomore year as his studies had grown more demanding. "I still love to watch, though," Mark had added, his eyes bright as he'd sipped his wine, and Hayge had smiled back at him.

"Well, we should have plenty to see tonight," Hayge had replied, and then blushed as Mark's smile changed, became sharper.

"Here's to that," Mark had murmured.

It wasn't a date, Hayge kept telling herself fiercely. It wasn't. Mark had turned her down too many times for Hayge to believe the flirting was real. Hayge reminded herself that flirting came naturally to Mark, that he was no more flirting with Hayge than he was with the maitre d', who'd been on the receiving end of a perfectly brilliant smile when he'd greeted them at the door, or the wine steward, who seemed to know Mark personally, or their waiter, with whom Mark had had a detailed discussion about the preparation of his cannelloni. Mark had a way of making whomever he was speaking with aware that they were the subject of his undivided attention, and when he was in a good mood, like now, he had an amazing ability to establish rapport. Hayge reminded herself that she must not read too much into it.

But she couldn't keep her spirits from soaring. Just looking at Mark made her happy and hungry; having Mark look back at her with those slow smiles made Hayge feel like she could fly.

They'd lingered over dinner, talking easily and laughing, and it wasn't until Mark sighed with regret and glanced at his watch that their waiter brought the bill. Hayge's mood was only slightly dimmed by its delivery - she'd expected Mark to protest her picking it up and he had.

It was one of the things Casey had warned her about, Hayge thought as she and Mark maneuvered their way through the thickening crowd. When she'd called Casey earlier from the office he had been at first envious of Hayge's luck in scoring a ticket to the hottest game in town, and then shocked by the news that she was going with Mark. His deep voice had grown increasingly alarmed as Hayge had told him that yes, she was going to the game, and yes, she was going to dinner with Mark.

"Hayge, do you not see how insane this is? He handed you the biggest rejection of your life not even a year ago . . ."

"But the best sex of my life too," Hayge had interrupted cheerfully. She was still grinning; nothing was going to bring her down today.

". . . and he's your _boss_, Hayge, he signs your paychecks . . ."

"Actually, I have direct deposit."

"Which is just, so . . . Hayge, do you see how that is so not the point?" Casey had been exasperated beyond belief. "The point is, you've been mooning about this guy since you met him last year, and even though you keep telling me what an asshole he is, it's so obvious that you haven't given up on him even though it's an impossible situation, even though he keeps _telling_ you that it's an impossible situation. And this is - it's just - Hayge. You're setting yourself up for another fall here."

Hayge had rolled her eyes. "Case, stop. I know that it's not a date. I mean, yeah, it's the playoff game but it's with work people, right? I'm thinking about it as sort of a corporate perk. Really."

Casey had been silent for a moment, then sighed heavily. "Okay, you lost me. Explain to me how having dinner for your boss - the one you have the huge and guilty and sordid past with - is some sort of a corporate perk."

"Oh, look. It's not like that at all," Hayge had insisted. "We're past all that, I'd practically forgotten all about it until just now. Everything's fine."

Casey had been silent for a second, and then burst out laughing. "You can't possibly expect me to believe that!" he'd exclaimed incredulously, and then laughed again.

"Courtsiiiiiiiiiiide, sucker!" Hayge had sung out, and then replaced the receiver, still grinning. The memory of Casey's laughter made her smile, and as they approached the main doors of the Garden, Mark caught her eye and grinned back. As Hayge walked beside him and watched Mark hand their tickets to the usher, she felt lighter than air, happier than she'd ever been. She wanted this night to go on forever.

She tried not to crowd Mark as they wove through the concourse and to the doorways leading to the floor, but it was all she could do to not put her hands on him, to touch the small of his back or even to take his hand. Hayge stuffed her hands into her pockets just to be safe, and tried not to stare at Mark's ass as they moved down the steps.

Hayge's eyes grew larger and larger as they descended the steps and moved closer to the court. As she followed Mark, edging sideways down the center row, she was surprised to see Nicholas already there. Hayge realized with a start that she'd completely forgotten that Nicholas was going to be at the game as well. The bubble of elation that had surrounded her since getting into the chauffeured Suburban deflated a little and he flushed, embarrassed.

"Move down," Mark ordered, and Hayge, peering over Mark's shoulder, saw Nicholas's eyebrows go up as he smiled up at them. He held a huge, dripping hamburger in his hand, and had a beer in the cup holder next to him.

"I'm settled here," Nicholas countered, and grinned as Mark hesitated. He moved his knees to the side. "You have room to get by."

Mark didn't move an inch, and Hayge, fidgeting behind him, felt an unwelcome and unwanted tension worm its way into her stomach. She liked Nicholas, she did, and Nicholas was a fellow Lakers fan, but she wanted to sit next to Mark. God, she thought with dismay. When had she turned into such a girl? She was hearing Casey's voice again.

"C'mon, Nicholas," Mark said quietly. "Don't be an asshole."

Nicholas took another bite of his hamburger. "I'm not hearing the magic word, darling." he responded sorrowfully, and Hayge heard Mark groan in exasperation.

"Oh for Christ's sake," Mark sighed. "Fine. Please. Please move your ass down a seat, Nick."

Nicholas gathered up his food and moved down one seat, allowing Mark and Hayge to take their seats to his left. Hayge smiled at him across Mark and was pleased to see Nicholas grin back. His eyes were alive with mirth; he was, apparently, already having a wonderful time.

"Hey, Nick, I'm really sorry you couldn't meet us for dinner," Hayge said, and hoped desperately that she sounded sincere.

"Oh, so am I, Hayge," Nicholas answered with elaborate regret. "Believe me, it was just a dirty and tragic shame that I suddenly had _so much_ work to do that I had to miss out on the pre-game dinner." He shot a narrow glance at Mark out of the corner of his eye before looking back to Hayge and shrugging. "But you know, nothing tells you that you're a valued employee like having to stay an extra half-hour, on a Friday night, on the night of a _playoff game_, because you're the only person in the whole press who can do a color correction properly."

"Yeah, yeah," Mark inserted with thinly disguised exasperation, shifting uneasily in the seat beside Hayge. "And that's enough shop talk tonight, all right?"

"Whatever you say, Mr. Director sir," Nicholas said serenely, and Hayge sat back in her seat with a laugh. She took in his surroundings with unconcealed joy: the packed arena and the loud buzz of excited conversation over the loud and thumping pre-game music, the players warming up just feet away, the television cameras and journalists jockeying for position under the hoops on either end. Beside her Mark's head was nodding in time to the music, his eyes on the court and a small smile curving his full lips. Hayge felt the warmth from Mark's thigh, just inches from her own leg, and her arms prickled with goose bumps despite the heat from the capacity crowd and the warm glow from the wine she'd had with dinner. Hayge gripped her hands together and cautiously considered Nicholas's words, and the possibility that Mark had engineered their intimate dinner. His heart rate approached a dangerous level and she resisted the urge to turn and examine Mark's profile.

The lights went down and the crowd roared as the announcer began to introduce the Knicks' starting line-up. Hayge clapped politely, grinning at the good-natured and scattered boos. Beside her Mark was applauding his team with a fair amount of enthusiasm, but laughing as Nicholas heckled the players. His thigh rested lightly against Hayge's in the cramped seats and Hayge chanced a quick look; Mark's smiling face and brown eyes literally took her breath away and she jerked her attention back to the court as the Lakers were introduced. He tapped her feet in time to the music, her entire body humming with excitement and anticipation.

They stood for the national anthem. The large, already-tipsy man on Hayge's left lumbered unsteadily to his feet and Hayge dodged to the right to get out of his way, bumping solidly into Mark. Mark's hands settled on Hayge's waist and the small of her back to steady her and she froze at the contact. Mark's palms were heated and firm on Hayge's body; the air whooshed out of her lungs and she restrained a hungry shudder with a huge effort. She was still blindly facing the weaving man on her left when Mark leaned closer and spoke quietly into her ear.

"Okay?" he asked softly, his voice low in Hayge's ear and crystal clear against the background noise of the anthem, the crowd. His chest was unbearably warm against Hayge's back and Hayge closed her eyes and wet her lips, for a moment wishing that she didn't have to move away, that she could turn in Mark's arms and wrap her own around him, run her hands down the smooth plane of his back, pull him close. Instead Hayge nodded and exhaled shakily as Mark's hands tightened on her waist, then slowly drew away. She felt dizzy.

The game started. Hayge sipped gratefully from the diet coke Nicholas had handed her and tried to pay attention to the game. Mark made low comments and observations and Hayge did her best to respond intelligently but the outcome of the game suddenly seemed secondary. Mark was beside her, sitting _right beside her _and speaking to her and trading smiling insults over disputed scoring calls, and by the end of the first quarter Hayge felt as if the only moments of clarity she'd experienced were the ones when she'd been turned away from the action on the court, speaking to Mark and staring into his eyes.

Halftime came with a flurry of music and activity as people rose from their seats. Mark and Nicholas entered into a spirited disagreement about basketball strategy and Hayge was watching, fascinated by Mark's complete devotion to winning the argument, when her phone vibrated vigorously in his pocket. Distracted by Mark's profile, she pulled it from her pocket and flipped it open.

"Well, don't you look like you're enjoying yourself." Casey's deep voice was patently amused, and Hayge grinned.

"Oh, you know it, dude," she answered. "Casey, our seats are . . ."

"You don't have to tell me," Casey interrupted smoothly. "Every time the camera goes down court I see your shiny happy face, sitting right there at courtside." He laughed. "You look like a teenaged girl at the prom with the captain of the football team, Hayge. Honestly, do you even know what the score is? Right now, without looking at the scoreboard, can you tell me what the score is?"

"Oh, screw you," Hayge said sheepishly, and felt her cheeks start to burn. "You're just jealous 'cause you're alone with your Doritos, watching the playoffs on television."

"With the rest of the losers in the world," Nicholas piped up, not even pretending not to listen to Hayge's conversation.

"That's right, I am," Casey said agreeably. "Of course, if I were there I'd actually be paying attention to the very excellent basketball game being played instead of fluttering my eyelashes at the handsome man in the next seat."

"Oh, you suck. I'm hanging up now," Hayge said.

"You do that, honey," Casey crooned. "Have a good time, and call if you're going to be out past midnight, and don't accept rides from any strangers, and if that handsome man next to you asks if you want to go somewhere to watch the submarine races you say . . ."

Hayge keyed her phone off and slid it back into her pocket. Nicholas had gone back to baiting Mark about the Knicks and their lack of staying power, and Mark slanted a devastating smile at Hayge as he turned away to argue. Hayge leaned her elbow against Mark's and shivered with anticipation as Mark nudged subtly back.

"Loser buys drinks!" Nicholas announced as they climbed to their feet after the final buzzer. "Loser. That would be you, Mr. Director. You might know business but once again you have demonstrated that you most emphatically do not know basketball, and this time it's going to cost you. Big," he finished with satisfaction, and Hayge smiled as she met Mark's eyes.

"Drinks," Mark answered absently, his eyes intent on Hayge's. "Absolutely. Let's do it."

It was a long walk to where their car waited. The crowd forced them to walk close together, their bodies nudging easily as they left the arena and joined the teeming, exuberant hordes on the street. Once Hayge was jostled and Mark placed his hands on Hayge's waist to steady her, as he'd done to her during the national anthem. Hayge leaned back against him for a second, flashing a smile over her shoulder before moving slowly away. "Stick close," he murmured and Hayge gulped.

"So, where do you want to go?" Mark asked, raising his voice to include Nicholas. The car was in sight, the driver standing beside it at the end of the block by the restaurant where they'd eaten dinner.

"Oh, hey, you know what? I suddenly find myself very, very sleepy," Nicholas said innocently. "I'm just going to head on home and sleep the sleep of the righteous and victorious. You two," he added, his eyes glinting slyly, "should just go right on without me."

_Heck, yes_, Hayge thought and then stopped, suddenly feeling unbearably guilty. "Oh, no, Nick c'mon," she said. "Just a couple of drinks." Nicholas shook his head and Hayge put more effort into it. "Just one, even. You have to come."

"Don't be an asshole, Nick. Just one drink, and then we'll take you home," Mark said, but Nicholas was speaking over him.

"No, no my mind's made up," he said, his smile glinting evilly in the light from the street lamps. "You two have a, uh, good time. Hayge? Try to teach the rich boy something useful about basketball, will ya? I'll catch you both later." He'd been backing away as he talked, and with another wave turned and jogged toward a cab stand on the corner.

For a moment they both stared after him, and then Mark turned slowly to Hayge with a smile. His eyes were clear and very direct, and Hayge lifted her chin and smiled back as she waited for him to speak.

"Still up for a drink?" Mark asked mildly.

"I am," Hayge answered forthrightly. Her hands were stuffed into the pockets of her light jacket. Inside, she had fingers on both hands crossed.

"Well, we have a number of options," Mark said quietly, and took a step closer to Hayge as he moved away from a group of laughing fans coming down the street. "There's a sports pub around the corner that has good beer," he offered.

Hayge took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice steady. "I imagine that'll be mobbed," he said, and Mark nodded in agreement.

"True," he said. "Well, there are other places that are quieter."

"You should know," Hayge said, holding Mark's eyes, "that I feel honor bound to make you pay for the most hideously expensive drinks I can possibly find tonight. Nicholas would be disappointed in me if I didn't," she said, and smiled wider as Mark's eyes moved over her, sharp and rapid.

"Expensive, huh," he responded, and Hayge nodded with satisfaction, loving the way Mark's eyes crinkled with his smile. "Maybe you can give me an idea of what you have in mind," Mark said.

Hayge's heart felt like it might thump right out of her chest. She felt breathless from the gamble she was about to take; she'd been turned away so many times, but Mark's face, open and smiling, and his brilliant and direct eyes made her brave enough to try this one last time. Just one more time, she thought, and steeled herself.

"I've learned recently that I have very expensive taste in champagne," she said softly, and waited breathlessly for Mark to answer.

Mark was silent for a long and painful moment, his gaze sharp and narrow on Hayge's face. Hayge met his eyes without blinking, and waited.

Then Mark smiled, hungry and a little wistful as he examined Hayge's features. "I guess it is a special sort of occasion," he said thoughtfully.

"It is," Hayge agreed softly. "One of those very unique, one-time only sort of things." Her throat was very, very dry.

"A one-time only thing," Mark murmured, and moved infinitesimally closer to Hayge. "Well, I know a place that stocks the very, very best champagne there is," he said, and Hayge let out her breath in a sigh of relief and excruciating anticipation. "I think it might be just what you're looking for."

"I hope you're not talking about your stuffy family club," Hayge murmured, stepping closer to Mark until they were face to face.

"No," Mark said, and now his smile was sharper and more predatory. "I'm thinking somewhere much more private."

"What are we waiting for?" Hayge asked, and grinned as Mark laughed and nodded his head toward the waiting car.

* * *

Be calm, Mark told himself as they entered his living room, as he watched Hayge slowly walk the perimeter, then stop in front of the window to gaze out at the night sky, strong and beautiful when she turned to smile at Mark.

"You all right?" she softly asked, and Mark only barely stifled a laugh. No, he was not all right - the fact that he was in this situation at all was sign enough of that. And worse yet, Mark himself had put them here, had in fact done a rather considerable amount of wrangling to end up like this with Hayge before him right now. Mark, not Hayge, had asked Nicholas to work late. Mark, not Hayge, had all but arranged an intimate dinner for the two of them. Mark, not Hayge, had easily and without even blinking agreed to Hayge's ridiculous proposal out on the street. No matter how much Mark wanted to think that he was above such maneuvering, this situation was clearly of his making.

"I'm fine," he told Hayge and smiled back. The stark truth of it was that there was no way he was going to forgo an evening with Hayge, not when he had her so close like this, and not when Hayge herself was so obviously willing and . . . receptive, as she'd said before. It had simply been far too long since Mark had last touched her, really touched her, and even though he could have coldly and clearly listed any number of reasons why it would be a very bad idea to sleep with Hayge, there was no way in hell Mark was going to deny himself now.

Denial, after all, had been the problem, hadn't it? Mark looked at Hayge's shoulders, the curve of her back, her long legs, and very nearly sighed. The more he longed for Hayge without acting on it, the more power he gave Hayge over him, the more he sank into obsession and weakness. The thing to do was give into it in a conscious, calculated way, to bring himself - and, hopefully, Hayge - as much pleasure as possible and then to end this preoccupation, to stop being so . . . disempowered by the situation. If he let himself have sex with Hayge tonight, he could finally get it out of his system, and the result would be favorable in both the short run and the long run. It made all the sense in the world.

And god, Hayge was gorgeous when she smiled, her eyes open and soft, her teeth flashing in the half-darkened room. Mark had wanted her for so long now, had had so many fevered dreams and imaginings about this moment that he didn't know whether to jump right in or prolong things, didn't know whether to come on strong or soft.

Mark felt his hands threaten to shake and casually stuffed them into the pockets of his jeans, forcing himself to breathe smoothly and evenly, to hide the edge of his desire. He needed to play this right, needed very much not to let Hayge see what a fool he had become for her, how far gone he was.

"So," Mark forced himself to say as Hayge turned to look out the window again, hiding the smile on his face from Mark. "I believe I promised you champagne."

"Yes," Hayge immediately answered, and Mark had to catch his breath as Hayge swung around again, because she looked so expectant and confident, so very much at peace with what they were doing here tonight. It was enough to make a person jealous.

"Follow me and we'll get you some."

Hayge smiled wickedly. "Shouldn't the butler do that for us?"

The butler? Mark drew his brows together in momentary exasperation. "Of course I don't have a butler."

"There was one before. At the party," Hayge reminded him.

"Oh." That was true. "Well, there's not usually. Seriously, Hayge, I take care of myself."

"I'm sure you do, Mark," Hayge said lightly, teasingly, then fell into step behind Mark as he led her to the kitchen.

Mark wanted to be distant and smooth, but all he was aware of as Hayge followed him down the hall was the steady ache of his body, the way his nerves were strung taut, eager to vibrate at any sign at all from Hayge.

"What - no cook?" Hayge asked as they entered the kitchen, and Mark rolled his eyes.

"Sorry to disappoint your fantasies about the idle rich, but there's no cook either."

Not tonight, anyway, and Hayge simply didn't need to know more than that right now, now did she?

Mark liked his kitchen: it was spare and clean, with broad counters and cabinets that had glass panes in the doors so he could see exactly what he had and exactly how he'd arranged it. His appliances were big, steel, and industrial-looking - an Aga cooker, a giant refrigerator with two doors, a state-of-the-art coffee and espresso maker, a blender for his protein shakes. It was precise and beautiful, simple and pleasing. Mark reached for the light switch and then stopped himself - the dim light over the stove was all he wanted.

"Sterile, functional, and impressive," Hayge pronounced as she looked around in the semidarkness. "In other words, very much you."

"Watch who you're calling sterile," Mark said over his shoulder, heading for the fridge and then pausing in front of it as he tried to remember exactly which champagne he happened to have at the moment.

"You do have it, right?" Hayge said from right behind him, and Mark closed his eyes for a split second and absolutely ordered himself not to shiver, no matter how close Hayge was, no matter how wonderful she smelled or how much warmth she was giving off.

"Of course." Mark pulled open the fridge, blinking a little at the light, eyes rapidly taking inventory. A couple of shelves up and there it was, and as Mark reached for the bottle, he began to wonder whether Veuve Cliquot was what he'd served -

When Hayge placed his hands on Mark's waist and then slid them downward, all thought in the world swept into a magnificent wave of sensation. Mark heard himself gasp, and for the longest, dizziest few seconds of his life, he remained motionless and luxuriated in the feel of Hayge's touch until finally securing the bottle of champagne in a death grip and then rapidly stepping back, only just resisting the rather considerable urge he felt to sink to his knees and bring Hayge down with him.

"God, Mark, you're so hot," Hayge said in a low, almost reverent voice. Her hands lingered warmly on Mark's waist but she moved away enough for Mark to close the refrigerator and turn to face her before leaning in, her mouth reaching for Mark's. But Mark leaned back against the refrigerator door and brought the bottle of champagne up between them. This was not about quick and easy satisfaction, he reminded himself. This was about assuaging and hopefully eliminating what had become a crippling sort of need. But it was almost painful to avoid Hayge's soft lips, to give him a slow smile as he balanced the heel of the bottle against his thighs and peeled away the foil.

"We need glasses." Mark said, then quickly lowered his eyes when he happened to look into Hayge's. "They're right over there, in the top cupboard. Can you see them?"

"I see," Hayge murmured, her eyes not moving from Mark's until Mark lowered his head again to untwist the wire on the bottle. A few seconds later, the hollow sound of the cork popping filled the room, and Mark's fingers were covered in fizzing liquid.

Mark looked at Hayge again. "Glasses," he said, then felt the world around him slow to a halt as Hayge leaned in and raised Mark's hand to her mouth, carefully sucking the champagne from his fingers, her mouth hot, her eyes hotter still. It was all Mark could do not to moan, and when Hayge reached for the bottle, Mark silently handed it to her, then watched with growing amazement as Hayge easily and unselfconsciously lifted the bottle to her mouth and began to drink, her throat long and beautiful.

"Hayge," Mark murmured disapprovingly before he could stop himself, the last vestiges of his self-control starting to erode, and Hayge's body shook a little then, probably because she was trying to suppress laughter. After just a few seconds, she lowered the bottle, breathing deep in pleasure, and then looked intently at Mark and slowly wiped her beautiful wet mouth with the back of her hand.

"Hayge," Mark said again, only this time in sheerest admiration, and didn't for a second pretend to play it cool as Hayge's lips settled on his. Mark groaned into the slick interior of Hayge's mouth, delightedly stroking Hayge's tongue with his, then stepping very, very close, as close as he wanted to be.

"Wait, wait," Hayge said a little breathlessly, stepping back and offering the bottle of champagne to Mark. "You have some."

"This is really not the way to appreciate -" Mark said in spite of himself, then cut that short and drank before Hayge could begin to laugh. The champagne was cold and sharp, and it fizzed and burned its way down Mark's throat, making him feel giddy and reckless. Mark lowered the bottle and reached out to put a hand in the middle of Hayge's chest, and then took another long swig before slowly walking Hayge backward, easing her toward the counter, then placing the bottle next to her once Hayge had stilled.

The need was back, and Mark stepped immediately into Hayge and covered her lips, shuddering contentedly as Hayge's hands smoothed over his back and she opened his mouth for Mark. As the kiss deepened, Mark closed his eyes and reveled in it, loving the feel of Hayge's heart pounding against his, the way Hayge hitched her breath as Mark's hands moved closer and closer to the opening of her jeans. For a moment, Mark was furious with himself - he needed this far, far too much, and he was far, far too helpless with desire - but then Hayge softly murmured his name and let her hands slide down and over Mark's ass, and everything but pleasure disappeared. They leaned against the counter for what seemed like forever, pausing occasionally to take long drinks of the champagne, both of them becoming progressively flushed, straining into each other, filling the silent kitchen with low, eager moans as Mark parted Hayge's legs with his thigh and brought their hips together.

"Mark," Hayge gasped as Mark finally opened the button of her pants and then gently eased the zipper down before sliding a hand inside to stroke her though her underwear. Hayge's throat was flushed, her eyes bright and hungry, her mouth swollen from kisses and red from the cool champagne: she was absolutely breathtaking, and for a moment, Mark froze in awe, almost astounded at his luck in having her here, in his own kitchen, and so obviously very ready for more.

"Mark," Hayge repeated, pressing against his hand in encouragement, and Mark leaned forward and gently bit the side of her neck, then kissed down as far as the neckline of Hayge's blouse would let him, all the while slowly stroking Hayge, breathing almost as hard as Hayge was, adoring the way Hayge gripped him so tightly, trying determinedly to bring them closer and closer.

Eventually, Mark became impatient: making out in his kitchen was good and well, but Hayge was now so responsive, so hungry, that it was an impediment not to have a bed to stretch onto.

"Come to my room?" Mark asked, suffering an agony of embarrassment as he heard the pleading in his voice, as he watched a small, satisfied smile curve onto Hayge's face in response.

"Of course," Hayge murmured, and Mark sighed and then kissed her some more, because going to his room would mean stopping touching Hayge for a while, and now he wasn't sure he was ready to do that, particularly with Hayge so wet and hot under his hand, Hayge squirming and sighing so beautifully. They could stay here after all - there was plenty of room in the kitchen, even if it wasn't -

Hayge gripped his shoulders firmly, then spoke in a low, quivering voice. "Bed, Mark. Take me there," she murmured, and then gently pushed Mark back a bit.

"Right," Mark answered shakily and then almost automatically began to lead the way. It seemed as if the journey took forever, and more than once, Mark came close to stopping, pressing Hayge into the wall, and then kissing her all over again, but he doggedly kept his goal in mind, and soon the two of them were in Mark's bedroom, kicking off their shoes, shucking off their clothes, and collapsing into the bed together.

This night was turning out to be everything the first time had been and then more, Mark thought later as he kissed his way down Hayge's chest, sighing with pleasure himself as Hayge rubbed his shoulders, urging him onward. Hayge was ravenous and eager, her hands all over Mark, her voice persuasive and sweet - she was working very hard to get Mark to do exactly what she wanted him to, and it was possibly the hottest thing Mark had ever seen. When he situated himself between Hayge's legs, Mark looked into Hayge's face, saw the vulnerability there, and felt himself blush deeply as he slowly, easily slid into her and began.

Hayge couldn't calm herself down. She was writhing, moaning, beckoning the gods to come down and help her gain back her inhibitions. Mark tried placing his lips over hers as he drove deep and hard into her, Hayge kissing back carelessly, tongues searching, lost, in desperate need of something. Every so often, she would gasp and tear her lips away, trying to breathe and not disappear into a million pieces. They moved together, in perfect sync. The bed was creaking like a music chiming enchantingly in the background and Mark hadn't realized he'd pushed Hayge too far up the bed until his ear caught the sound of the continuous thud against his headboard and paused at his assault, which physically hurt, to bring their bodies lower. He went in almost instantly and Hayge hummed desperately, head falling back, eyes squeezed shut and mouth open, lost in the pleasure. He lowered his head to run a long, wet kiss on her neck, stifling his own moans as she took him in, welcoming his hard thrusts over and over again.

"More, Mark. More." Hayge moaned out, almost inaudibly. For a moment, Mark's eyes widened in surprise and hell, he got even harder, if that was possible. He almost gave into it - but then he remembered what he wanted, what he needed, and began, slow, gentle surges forward, careful and tender, and when Hayge shuddered hard underneath him and let out a low, broken cry, Mark knew he'd done the right thing. His desire was fierce and nearly ungovernable, threatening to overflow, but Mark kept it check so that he could be deliberate with Hayge, so that he could bring them both to the edge slowly and gradually, so that neither of them could deny what they were feeling, neither of them could rush or push or force anything. It was perfect and it was devastating, and by the time the two of them shuddered together and then collapsed, Mark's heart was pounding in terror as much as pleasure, because he had no idea on earth what he'd just done, or how he was going to deny it to himself in the future.

"Come here," Hayge whispered, her voice warm and tender, and Mark did it, moved next to her, slid arms tight around her, and then closed his eyes and breathed with her until they both drifted asleep.

* * *

Early the next morning Mark opened his eyes and groaned, letting them fall shut again and stretching lazily, arching in pleasure as he extended his arms above his head and pointed his toes. He felt lazy, heavy and sated, and when he breathed in deep, he could smell Hayge all over him, which was both dizzying and wonderful. As soon as he felt a little more awake, he was going to reach over and slide a hand down Hayge's back, and Hayge would slowly roll over, open her mouth, and then everything would happen all over again, just like it had last night.

At that thought, Mark stilled a little. Last night had been undeniably excellent from a physical standpoint, but that hadn't been all it was, no matter how much he didn't want to admit that. Almost everything that had passed between them had done so without words, but it would be impossible to claim that he and Hayge weren't closer now, that something indefinable and yet solidly intimate hadn't arisen between them during the night.

It was unsettling, to be sure, and even more unnerving than that was the fact that right now, Mark saw no reason whatsoever why he shouldn't rush in for more, shouldn't try yet again to get to that place of pleasure and closeness. It had been strangely beautiful, and Hayge had taken him there, Hayge, who was difficult and annoying and beautiful and tender and terrifying.

Mark couldn't resist her anymore. Even as he thought it, he felt his face redden, but it was impossible to claim otherwise. He had to be near Hayge, had to have her, had to go on whatever strange trip they'd started and see it through to the end.

Yes. That's exactly what they'd do. Mark opened his eyes, turned on his side to greet Hayge, his heart and head swirling with uncomfortable, frightening thoughts, and then drew in a short, sharp breath.

The bed was empty. Hayge was gone.

* * *

Hayge spent most of Saturday alternating between euphoria and a deep gloom. The joy came when she thought about the exhilaration of the previous evening's dinner, the basketball game, and its very, very satisfying aftermath, and caused her to drift aimlessly around her apartment, smiling goofily at nothing. The gloom and its accompanying anxiety followed the euphoria when she remembered waking up in Mark's bed before dawn with an unnerving sense of deja vu that had her dressing and slipping silently from the penthouse while Mark slept.

Despite her strenuous and relatively sleepless night Hayge had been unable to nap, wandering about her apartment and passing equal amounts of time staring out her windows and staring at her telephone. Had she been wrong to leave the way she had? It had certainly seemed like a good idea at the time, when the familiarity of Mark's bedroom in the dim pre-dawn light had reminded her far too vividly of the last time she'd been there. It had suddenly seemed crucial to get out of there before there could be a repeat of the morning-after incident that still, after almost a year, made her cringe with humiliation.

But still, she thought as she stared at her phone and nibbled on her thumbnail, things were different now. She and Mark weren't strangers indulging in a one-night stand; they'd worked together for almost half a year now, knew each other, had had numerous encounters. They were almost like friends, after a fashion. And all these things had contributed to making the previous night just incredible. Even better than the first time, and that, Hayge thought ruefully, was really saying something.

As she thought of the way Mark had looked at her and touched her last night, Hayge knew that if nothing else, the intensity of the attraction Mark harbored toward Hayge was almost as strong as what Hayge felt for Mark. And if she looked at it that way, Hayge thought slowly, then bolting from Mark's penthouse in the dark of the night could be construed as one of the rudest and most thoughtless things she'd ever done. Her eyes strayed to her telephone again. Maybe she should call.

But then she remembered Mark's careless dismissal of her the previous summer, and she closed her eyes and groaned out loud. All the courage she'd had in suggesting Mark take her home after the game had vanished early that morning - the sight of Mark sprawled naked and boneless in sleep beside her had brought a flood of feelings that had simply overwhelmed her with their intensity: wonder, joy, a deep, gnawing desire that shocked her considering the night they'd just spent, and a shuddering sort of terror when she realized that the absolute compulsion to stay right where she was and watch Mark open his eyes had almost nothing to do with sex.

For what seemed like the millionth time that day Hayge dragged her eyes and then her body away from the telephone in her living room. What was she thinking? She'd had every right to protect herself from the sort of devastating humiliation she knew Mark was perfectly capable of dishing out. There was no reason to call him. If anything, she thought righteously as she rooted through her refrigerator for something to eat, Mark ought to be calling her.

Plus, she reminded herself wryly, she didn't know Mark's home number. Or his cell phone number for that matter. She laughed aloud at that thought, the sound echoing humorlessly in her silent kitchen. And she'd been thinking that there could be more between them than the occasional one-nighter. She was a fool.

Hayge turned her attention to a late lunch and Saturday afternoon sports on television, and determinedly pushed all other subjects away.

It didn't work, of course. Hayge couldn't quite shut down her brain, and she was irritated to find herself jumping hopefully every time her telephone rang. Televised sports couldn't hold her interest, various invitations from friends failed to excite her, and her attempt to do her laundry failed immediately when she looked at the clothes she'd worn - and Mark had peeled off her - the previous night. The heated memory of Mark's dim and elegant kitchen, the taste of champagne and the taste of Mark's mouth as his warm fingers had stroked Hayge's skin was her undoing.

After an almost sleepless night of tossing and turning (and thinking truly alarming thoughts about getting up and taking a cab to Mark's penthouse, immediately - although she had no idea what she would say when she got there he had some very clear ideas about what she wanted to _do_), Hayge found herself examining the morning paper's society page and looking for a familiar face among the glittering rich of New York City. When she realized what she was doing, she threw the paper down in disgust. Hayge had had enough.

Instead of mooning about her apartment she began his Sunday morning with a granola bar and a three-mile jog through the streets of New York City, taking special pains to avoid Central Park. After a more substantial breakfast, Hayge showered, dressed in jeans and a crème-shaded blouse, grabbed her bag and headed to the office. It would get her out of the apartment and take her mind off things, she told herself firmly as she walked to the subway. There was a big list-setting meeting this week that she just knew Rynan hadn't adequately prepared for, and once she was done with that, there were a million other things to do.

The press was utterly silent on Sunday morning and Hayge settled into her peaceful office with a sigh of relief. She ignored the fluorescent overheads and turned on her desk lamp, slipped a CD into her stereo and turned the sound low, and settled in to work.

She was still struggling to concentrate when she caught a flash of movement in her open doorway. The fright caused her to practically leap out of her chair.

Mark smiled slightly. He was in jeans too, with a plain black tee shirt that fit snugly enough to make Hayge gulp. His eyes were cool and completely unreadable. "Hey," he said quietly, and his eyebrows lifted a little. "Sorry I startled you."

Well, it wasn't the ideal way to have this first meeting, Hayge thought one hand still pressed over her galloping heart. She wished he'd had a little warning.

"More like 'frightened'," she said, and tried a small smile. It was shaky. "I didn't know . . . I mean, I thought I was alone here today."

Mark glanced over his shoulder at the dark and silent offices. "I think it's just you and I," he said thoughtfully, and Hayge cursed herself at the images her traitorous mind conjured up with that statement. Mark turned back to her, the smile gone. "Why are you here?" he inquired politely, and Hayge slowly settled herself back in her chair. Her heart was pounding.

"Oh, I have a dozen things to do," she said airily, waving a hand at the top of her desk. "It's going to be a full week, and I wanted to get a leg up on it." She was able, with a little bit of effort, to meet Mark's steady eyes. "And what brings you here on a Sunday morning?"

Mark blinked and for a moment looked uncertain, and Hayge felt a small surge of satisfaction. So Mark wasn't all that sure of himself this morning either. Good.

"Well, I couldn't sleep," Mark answered straightforwardly, and this time it was Hayge's turn to blink. "And I couldn't get anything done at home, so I thought I'd come in and try to get caught up on some work."

He offered a tentative smile and Hayge returned it, her eyes devouring the lift of Mark's soft lips.

"So I wanted to say . . ."

"I was going to ask . . ."

They both stopped and stared at each other for a moment, then Mark nodded. "You first," he said. His voice was very quiet.

Hayge took a deep breath and got to her feet. "I wanted to say, thanks again for the basketball ticket," she said, "It was really amazing, being that close. I had such a great time."

Mark didn't move a muscle, his eyes clear and unwavering on Hayge's face. He stood just outside of Hayge's doorway like there was an invisible wall there, keeping him out. "I should be thanking you," he said slowly, his voice low and soft. He quirked a tiny smile, his eyes intent as Hayge's face heated up. "For dinner, of course," he continued smoothly.

"Oh, yeah. No problem," Hayge answered, subdued. She looked at the top of her desk, her thoughts chaotic as she struggled to find the right thing to say. "Listen," she said, and pulled a hand to tuck a lump of hair behind her ear, "About what happened after the game . . ."

Mark raised his eyebrows politely and gave her no help at all. Hayge plunged on. "I feel kind of bad about the way I left. It seemed like the right thing to do at the time, after what happened the first time we, uh. I mean, when I remembered that, and what you said earlier, about it being a special occasion and all . . ." She glanced at Mark's unreadable face. "But later I thought it might have been . . . Well. Rude of me."

Silence again. "Well, it was certainly understandable," Mark finally said, his voice formal. He suddenly seemed much farther away than Hayge's doorway, and she felt her heart sink heavily.

"So, I just . . . I mean, I've pushed you more than once in the last few months, and you've made your reasons for saying no clear, over and over." Hayge swallowed hard. "And, well, I feel bad about that, and I just want you to know that I'm not going to put you in that position again." She forced herself to stop talking, and wished with all her might that Mark would say something, anything encouraging, that he would open his mouth, smile, and tell Hayge that he wanted to make that one time into a second time, and maybe even more than that.

"I see," Mark said slowly and was silent for a long, long moment before clearing his throat. "Well, there's no reason for you to feel badly about any of it, I completely understand where you're coming from. And I appreciate you letting me know what's on your mind, Hayge." He took a step back, his face smooth and beautiful and utterly composed, and Hayge clenched her fists desperately.

"Was there something you wanted to ask me?" Hayge said, and prayed she didn't sound too hopeful.

"No, it was nothing important. I'll just let you get back to work," Mark said. He nodded in a friendly fashion and disappeared from Hayge's doorway.

Hayge listened to his steps move away down the silent hallway, and dropped her forehead to her desk as despair washed over her.


End file.
